by Tamara Gill
With a respectful inclination of the head, Mrs Leslie followed Mrs Templeton back to the door from which she'd appeared.
“That baggage, a housemaid! Well, God help her Ladyship if she puts a dainty foot wrong in my kitchen. Now, to work, you two dawdlers!”
~~~~~
Though Mrs Templeton was acquainted with Mrs Leslie's circumstances and, more importantly, her general character, through reliable sources, she'd never had the pleasure of speaking with her personally before. She’d not expected to, for the lady’s experience was in working as a companion, and governess – roles which they were not attempting to fill at present, no matter how much a truly effective governess might be good for the daughters of the house. But here the woman was, willing to work as a common housemaid.
As the interview for the vacant housemaid's post progressed, it was a pleasure to talk to the young lady; very much so, Mrs Templeton told herself repeatedly. As they sat in the neat and cosy confines of what the Earl affectionately referred to as 'Mrs Temp's Office’, the Head Housekeeper learned a few more details of young Mrs Leslie's rather straightened circumstances. The young lady hailed from a merchant's family in Edinburgh, and had come to London, near four years before, in 1813, to be married to an English lawyer.
Bad luck had seemed to harry her, from the moment she passed Hadrian's Wall and arrived in the capital, for the lawyer, to all appearances a hale and hearty man of thirty-two, died of a heart attack the very day before he was due to lead her to the altar.
For reasons – about which she didn't go into in much detail - the bride-to-be was left so perilously close to penury that she was forced to go into service as a companion. When her first employer died, she took work in another house, as a maid, whilst looking for something better.
Here too, ill-luck struck, as the youngest son of the house where she was working took such a violent liking to her that, to escape his persistent and unwelcome attentions, she was forced to leave. At the beginning of 1815 she met and fell, as violently herself, in love with a young officer of noble family. He was about to leave for the Continent and urged her to marry him before he left. She did so, and after three of the happiest weeks of her life, he left to take up his posting in Belgium.
After six, nerve-wracking months, while she worked as a governess to two girls about to come out into society, and followed with horror the news of Napoleon's escape from exile on the island of Elba and the rallying of the Grand Alliance to crush him decisively, there came the news that she'd dreaded - her young husband had fallen at the Battle of Waterloo.
Mrs Templeton, despite her amiable manner, was no sentimentalist, yet she was as spellbound by the quiet, subdued tones in which the young lady related these events. Had she been a reader of popular novels, she could not have heard a more dramatic and affecting story. The young lady, with her full head of flaming red hair released from the confines of her visibly patched and re-patched bonnet, and with the sunlight adding warm golden tones to a flawlessly pale complexion, was utterly beautiful, far too beautiful to be a mere housemaid.
And yet this beauty held an entirely justified sense of pride in check; she was no arrogant hussy, that was for certain.
Her pride was of the natural variety, Mrs Templeton concluded, and due to a just assessment of her own powers and worth, though there was a hint of Gaelic wildness, or mischievousness, in her too – no bad thing if she was to deal with his Lordship's difficult trio of daughters.
“Lady Amelia, the youngest, is a terror with her bad temper. I wonder, how would you react to being roundly abused over a trifle by a spoiled fifteen-year old Lady?”
Mrs Templeton, an expert interviewer of staff, fired this crucial question at the new candidate abruptly, in an attempt to catch her off-guard and expose any ineptitude, inexperience, or lack of confidence. The attempt was fruitless.
“As with most spoiled children, rich or poor, a short sharp shock of wit to remind them of their place will invariably – if done consistently – do the trick. They have to be shown that you are not to be trifled with, and that any over-stepping of the clearly defined mark will result in a stinging humiliation. It works with adults too. Failing that, a good smack on the derriere is the next best thing. That's the next best thing, sometimes the best thing for so-called adults too – although they rarely suffer such an indignity.”
Mrs Leslie delivered this conclusion with such a playfully serious smile that Mrs Templeton couldn't help but laugh. She rather thought the woman would do, even though she’d had doubts to start. She might be better suited to a higher position, but if she was willing to take on the lowly role of housemaid, Mrs Templeton would give her the chance to prove herself.
~~~~~
The beautiful young widow was smiling still as she walked along the stone passageway towards the door to the stable-yard, after her lengthy interview. It was an unaffected smile, a smile to her inmost self, and full of hope. The wages for the position were more than she had dared hope for, and would enable her to put decent food in front of her ailing mother-in-law, and get a little meat back on her own bones, not to mention a new dress, or perhaps even two. Though Mrs Templeton had said that she would 'let her know' by the day after tomorrow, Mrs Leslie was sure, could feel it in those hungry poorly-clad bones of hers, that the position would be hers.
As she reached the door, a rider trotted into the stable-yard. It was the Earl on a great, sleek, chestnut mare. She must've been put to quite a stretch of the gallops for she was agleam with sweat, and shook her damp mane as his Lordship smilingly bent to pat her neck.
What a stirring image they made, Mrs Leslie thought, as she stood in the doorway looking out, her heart, to her surprise, starting to beat erratically with a nervous flutter. His Lordship, dismounted, and stood affectionately rubbing and patting the mare's long neck. For a moment, as the Earl’s fine hand stroked down the mare’s neck, she found herself envying the tired horse.
'What nonsense Constance! Look at yourself girl. That is your future employer.'
But Constance, though shaking off the momentary envy, was unable to shift her eyes from the Earl. He was so tall – over six feet she was sure - and so very well-formed. His riding breeches set off the muscles of his long legs to perfection, while his close-fitting black riding coat accentuated his broad-shoulders and deep chest.
His hair was almost as dark as his coat, a thick mane, which, tied back so tightly, laid bare the first few silver-grey streaks of his forty-plus years. She imagined how he would look in the future, with a full head of silver hair, and the image of the sixty-year old Earl was no less virile and handsome.
'Enough lass. A handsome enough man yes, but your employer, and your bread depends on him. On with the day's business now.'
As she tied on her bonnet a groom appeared and took charge of the mare. The Earl, beaming with pleasure, nodded amiably to the young man, and helped him divest the horse of her saddle. Once the groom had thrown a blanket over the mare, he turned to lead her off, to walk her until she had cooled down. As the groom turned, the Earl pressed a silver coin into his palm, before he strode away, around to the front of the house.
'A very handsome man. And a good one too.'
'Pish Constance!'
She shook her head at her own thoughts, and set off in the warmth of the spring sunshine, back to the village.
Chapter Three
“Excellent news Mr Collins! And you're both in agreement as to the girl's merits? And her references? Mrs Temp?”
“Her references couldn't be better your Lordship, and all my spies in the village report nothing but good about her. A hard worker, no taste for gossip, and by all accounts a loyal and faithful woman in herself. She's a widow sir, her young husband was killed at Waterloo, and she's completely dedicated to the care of her ailing mother-in-law. I will say one thing sir, she's a spirited thing and will brook no nonsense from anyone.”
“What? She sounds rather Jacobin, we can't have radicals roaming the house Mrs Te
mp.”
His Lordship caught Mr Collins' eye and winked complicitly.
“Oh Sir, whenever will you stop pulling my leg? It's already a mile long and will come off at the next quip. No, she's no firebrand sir, just a quiet Scotswoman biding her own business but with the pride of that sister nation to us.”
“A proud Scotswoman? Dealing with my daughters? If her pride is of the touchy variety, she won’t last very long.”
“Begging your pardon sir but you're wrong. She has pride yes, but a deal of humour too, to offset it. Let me tell you what she said when I asked her how she'd deal with the kind of treatment meted out by Lady Amelia, begging your Lordship's pardon, again.”
“No need to stand on ceremony Mrs Temp, we're all scarred veterans' of my daughters' tongues. Now what did Mrs Leslie say?”
When told of Mrs Leslie's formula for dealing with recalcitrant children, and adults, Perry laughed approvingly.
“I approve your choice heartily Mrs Temp, and if Mr Collins here agrees, then she can start whenever you think fit.”
Mrs Temp trundled off to send a message to Mrs Leslie offering her the job of upstairs housemaid. And Perry waved Collins towards his study.
“Thank you, Edward, that's quite a relief. One less source of nagging by my spoiled darlings. Now, let's get on with planning our next great domestic battle, shall we? How shall we call it? Clara's Coming Out Campaign?”
Collins laughed, shaking his head.
“Campaign indeed. But before that, Perry, there’s something you should know about Mrs Leslie, something rather interesting, given our recent conversations.”
“Oh? And what would that be?”
“She’s not always just been a housemaid, my Lord – she’s worked as a companion to the nobility, and as a governess to girls not too different in age from your daughters.”
Perry looked at Collins as he closed the study door, shutting out any possible interruption to their discussion.
“A governess? Now that is interesting. I wonder how she’ll handle my daughters. Could we possibly be lucky? Let us see how she does as a housemaid, but if things go well, perhaps…”
“Indeed, Perry, my thoughts exactly.”
~~~~~
The Earl was completely immersed in 'Clara's Coming Out Campaign' - which was well named. It involved the assembly of a small army of servants, the employment of a variety of tradesmen and seamstresses, and the establishment of newer, more reliable supply routes between Blackwood Chase and Blackwood House.
It also required the placation of various potentates of the ton, particularly his mother the Dowager Countess, and other daunting Empresses of London's drawing rooms. So deeply was he caught up in it all, that he failed to notice his new employee as he sped hither and thither through the house. Constance, however, immersed in more physically demanding work, didn't fail to notice him; though the nature of her work left little time for contemplation of the impressive bearing of her new employer.
Nonetheless, she found herself looking for him, wanting to catch glimpses of him, whenever she could. No matter that she chastised herself for foolishness, she still looked, as she moved about the house, unable to help herself.
She fetched bed-linen and towels, bed-covers and bed-curtains; ensured that every upstairs cupboard was fully-stocked and that soiled linens, sheets and towels were delivered to the washhouse, and fresh linens, sheets and towels removed from the washhouse and re-stored. Then there was the cleaning and polishing, the dusting, the trimming and replacing of candles in the galleries and bedrooms, the maintenance of the windows, the oiling of door hinges and a thousand lesser details which constantly cropped up with distressing regularity. Constance, glad to be working again, found nothing that she had to do distressing, and applied herself to each task with an energy that made her fellow servants raise their eyebrows.
“She won’t last at this pace” noted Anne, another upstairs-maid.
“No, and I'll be glad to see her flag. What's she trying to do? Show us up? We only work like that when Mr Collins or Mrs Temp are around. She should slow down. It isn't good to work harder than those around you, when there's no need to” observed Rosemary, Anne’s fellow domestic and bosom-companion.
But for Constance there was a need to work harder. Not only was she keen to validate Mrs Templeton's decision to employ her, but she needed hard work to help her forget her worries and memories - all of the terrible events she'd experienced since leaving her home in Edinburgh.
As she polished the floorboards of the galleries on her hands and knees, the image of her young husband waving as he rode off to the war, and the more terrible image of the man she had first come to London to marry, the lawyer, stricken and dying, disappeared from her mind.
“She's a wit though, a real wag, I have to say” observed Anne with approval one afternoon, as they leaned over the bannisters, watching Constance polishing a large mirror in the gallery below.
“Put Mary in her place this morning in the kitchen right enough. 'You stick to your suds, I'll mind the sheets' she says to her, after Mary turns and tells her there's a fresh pile of Lady Amelia's linen waiting by in the washhouse.”
“Wag or no, I don't trust her, she's up to something. Look at her, that fine red-hair, that skin, she's no houseworker, never did a day's honest in her life, if you ask me. And she's a Scot. A mean-spirited people, my old dad used to say.”
“Well she isn't mean with the elbow-grease Rose, look at her go.”
Constance, below, though she couldn't hear her colleagues' whispering, was well aware of being observed, and wasn't irritated by it. It was only to be expected. She was new, a stranger in the close-knit world of Blackwood Chase, and it would take time, she knew, to be accepted. The trick was not to seem to be trying to be accepted.
The only people she had to be wary of were her 'betters, mistresses and masters' as Mrs Bell referred to the Earl, his family, and their friends who visited the house on a fairly regular basis. Some of these visitors did irritate her, though no one had said anything yet which had caused her to bridle. She had to be careful however, for she was well aware that, for some of these fine people, no 'mere servant' could be fawning and obsequious enough for their liking; and she well knew that what her father had always called 'the streak of Highland iron' which ran through their family was, more often than not, apparent in her manner.
A sharp glint of it had already appeared in an encounter with Lady Clara the day before.
Constance had been sorting through the jumble of clothes left on the floor of Lady Clara's room as Clara sat combing out her long dark blonde hair before the dressing-table mirror, while Lady Harriet lounged on the bed which Constance had just finished making. As Constance picked up and shook out a soiled nightdress, one of Clara's many pearl necklaces flew out, collided with the bed-post and skittered across the highly polished floor-boards.
“You clumsy thing! They're my favourite pearls!”
Lady Clara paused in mid-brush and, flushed with contempt, glared at Constance.
“If they were my favourite pearls, I'd take rather more care of them, personally speaking.”
“How dare you speak to me like that!”
Lady Clara's pale-skin was suffused with blood. Constance walked over and picked up the pearls.
“They don't seem too bruised, if they need treatment, I'll gladly pay for it, as I suppose it was my fault.”
“'You'll pay' will you... you... have you any idea what that pearl necklace cost?”
“No, have you?”
Both of the young ladies stared at her in astonishment. Then Harriet giggled, shook her shoulders, and snuggled back down against the pillows, secretly pleased at her eldest, soon to be 'out in society', sister's discomfiture.
“She's right Clara. You have no idea, and you really should be more careful with your jewellery.”
Constance handed the pearls to Lady Clara who took them and ostentatiously laid them in one of her over-stuffed jewellery boxe
s.
“As you're new here, I shall overlook it on this occasion, but be careful with my things.”
Lady Harriet giggled again at the bow of the head Constance gave, which Lady Clara, turning to re-examine her complexion in the mirror, missed.
Constance went on with her day, well pleased with the way that the altercation had played out.
~~~~~
In the kitchen, Mrs Bell and the kitchen maids were, as often of late, discussing Mrs Leslie. Had Mrs Bell seen the incident of the pearls, it would've instantly proved the main tenet of her deeply considered theory as to Mrs Leslie – a theory on which she was holding forth, at that very moment.
“That Scot's baggage is too smart for her own good. Mark me she'll come to grief, and quick.”
“Yes, she's a neat-tongued creature I must say.” Sarah lifted a willow-pattern dish from the hot water and examined it in the sunlight. “But everyone says she's the hardest worker wot we ever had here at Blackwood Chase. 'She's a whole regiment of housemaids in one' Mr Collins said, 'parently. You can't deny that Mrs Bell. You've seen her with the laundry.”
Mrs Bell paused with knife raised, a knife red with the blood of the freshly caught pheasant she was preparing for the pot, and pointed it at Sarah.
“Did you hear me say she wasn't a hard worker girl? Did you, eh?”
“No Missus. Sorry.”
“All I said was she's far too smart for a servant. It's against the laws of God and Man for a chit of a housemaid to have a clever tongue in her head. She'll come to grief, mark me.”
Sarah and Mary didn't, but the pheasant's neck certainly did.
As the days passed, Constance earned the respect of most of the generally ungrudging domestic inmates of Blackwood Chase. Not only for doing her own daunting quota of work uncomplainingly, but for often, unbidden, helping them with theirs. The only hindrance to her being completely accepted was her 'foreignness’. Someone from outside the county was stranger enough, but someone from the wilds of the north of the British Isles may as well have hailed from another planet. Constance acknowledged to herself that she would probably never be fully accepted by her colleagues, but she didn't mind. She was there to earn money, to look after her mother-in-law, old Mrs Leslie, a lady she loved; not just for her sweet nature, but for the fact that she was the last link with her dead soldier husband. The old woman provided a kind of continuity in what had thus far proved to be a very sketchy and disconnected life.
