Turning to more interesting matters: I must tell you about another of our visitors whom you may eventually come to hear of yourself. She is a young American lady by the name of Kate Brookfield, over here with her mother on a tour of Europe. Lady Vye has been taking particular pains to cultivate their friendship, and I should not be at all surprised to see Miss Brookfield at Swallowcliffe too one day - and maybe as something more than a guest! She is quite beautiful and heiress to a great fortune, so of course she would make a wonderful match for Master Edward. He was down from Oxford last weekend to stay with the family and seemed very struck by her. Miss Brookfield is an accomplished horsewoman so they have been out riding together in the park with Lady Vye, and Master Rory too, whose barracks are nearby. Who knows how things may turn out?
There is no need to ask you for news of Swallowcliffe, because I am sure everything will have been going on much the same! I must admit, life in the country is bound to seem rather dull after the excitement of London, but perhaps I will be ready for a rest by then. At any rate it will be very nice to see you again; I can tell you everything else I am too tired to write now
With fondest affection
Jemima Newgate
The letter made me smile - Jemima’s voice came through so very clearly - although Iris seemed rather put out after she had finished reading. It was easy enough to guess the reason why: she would not have liked to think of Master Rory riding about with a beautiful American heiress. By the time our train came, however, she had managed to recover her spirits and we spent the rest of the journey chatting away like nobody’s business. That day I felt as though my good friend Iris had come back to me, and very glad I was to find her again.
She told me a little about her childhood and her parents, who were both quite elderly and lived in a three-storey terraced house on the outskirts of York. Being Baptists, they had brought up Iris and her two older sisters in a strict, God-fearing household; one which - reading between the lines - did not have a great deal of love or laughter in it. I worried for a moment that Iris might think our cottage very shabby and poor compared to her home, but there was nothing to be done about that now. Before I knew it, we were pulling into the station, and there were my sisters and brother running alongside the train down the platform, and my darling mother waiting to greet us.
‘Why, Polly,’ she said, holding me at arms’ length for a moment, ‘just look at you! You’re properly grown up!’
I had been gone less than three months, and yet I truly did feel like a different person - both inside and out. So much had happened to me since I had arrived at Swallowcliffe, and I suppose Eugenie’s fine clothes made me seem older too. Mother was almost shy with me at first, particularly in front of Iris, who could not help putting everyone else in the shade on account of her looks. She was even more lovely than usual in her Sunday best, if still a little pale from the see-saw carriage ride, and my younger sister Martha took to her immediately. I don’t think she let go of Iris’s hand the entire visit, apart from when we were sitting down to eat. Luckily my other sister Lizzie can talk the hind leg off a donkey, which gave the rest of us time to get used to each other. Iris gave my mother the sunshine yellow flowers she had picked that morning - daffodils, marsh marigolds and colt’s foot, wrapped up in damp moss and tied with ivy - Tom held her other hand and mine in his own, demanding to be swung between us, and by the time we were half a mile down the road for home, everyone felt quite comfortable in each other’s company.
I could hardly believe how tiny our cottage seemed to me now, after Swallowcliffe’s large rooms and high ceilings; we could not all fit in the front room together. Perhaps that was just as well, though, since the kitchen was much warmer and more welcoming. Pots of red geraniums marched in a row along the windowsill, the whitewashed walls were bright and clean, and a colourful rag rug lay on the stone floor. Iris sat at the table with Martha on her lap, perfectly content, and I knew there was no reason to worry. Our house might have been poor, but I had no need to feel ashamed of it.
While the kettle was boiling for tea, Mother told me a piece of sad news: Reverend Conway had died unexpectedly a couple of weeks before. His daughter had already left the village to act as lady’s companion to an elderly widow some twenty miles away, because a new vicar and his wife would shortly be arriving to take over the vicarage. I was sorry not to have been able to say goodbye, but Mother gave me Miss Conway’s address so that I could write and wish her well. Then it was time for church, with a visiting curate in the pulpit instead of Reverend Conway, and the neighbours to greet afterwards. My mother has never been one to puff herself up, but she couldn’t help looking proud of me. After the service we went home for slices of boiled bacon on toast, and then we all rambled through the fields down to the river while Iris and I told Mother about our lives at Swallowcliffe.
‘Now you listen for a change, young Lizzie,’ she said to my sister. ‘If you can do half as well for yourself as our Polly has, I shall die a happy woman.’
It was lovely to be home! I hated saying goodbye at the end of the day, but I’d be coming back in the summer for a whole week which cheered me up a little. I’d given my mother almost three pounds (including Lord Vye’s sovereign), Tom was so pleased with his new boots he would probably be sleeping in them, and the same with Lizzie and her dresses - Martha even managed not to be jealous since she knew they would be coming to her in the end. It had been a lovely day, all in all, made perfect by the fact that Iris and I had shared it together. Now we were going back to the Hall to start on the spring cleaning, summer was on its way and, with a bit of luck, she would soon forget about Rory Vye.
Eight
Many illnesses are carried and caused by the accumulations of dirt, even of light dust, which are overlooked by careless housekeepers! Every particle of dust is a particle of danger. Never forget this, and you will save yourself much trouble and grief.
From Advice for the Laundry and Spring Cleaning, 1893
What a deal of work, spring cleaning is! I soon began to feel that I knew every inch of Swallowcliffe Hall, from top to bottom, and every single thing under its roof. Mr Wilkins and William (who had been left behind to help us while Mr Goddard and the other two footmen went to London) brought out huge ladders from the stables and held them steady for us while we took down all the curtains in the house and unhooked the bed hangings. With the family was away, at least there was no need for them to wear livery; William spent most of his time in a waistcoat and shirt sleeves, that thick brown hair of his curling down over his collar. He did look handsome. Just as well we were so busy and that he was probably sweet on Iris anyway, or I might have been quite distracted.
We covered everything with dustcloths before the chimney sweeps came, then Mary and Mrs Henderson put away the ornaments (including one particular figurine with a spider’s web of cracks over it that was only too familiar to me), and we washed down the furniture with vinegar and scoured it with fine sand before a new layer of beeswax could be applied.
‘Rub until the wood is warm!’ Mrs Henderson ordered, so we polished away until our arms ached. The carpets were taken up and dragged outside for the gardeners to hang over a clothes’ line and beat as hard as they could, and all the wooden paintwork was scrubbed. Every speck of dust and soot from the countless fires that had burned over that long winter was sent flying, and we threw open the windows to let fresh air come flooding through the house.
We worked hard but it was a happy time. With most of the upper servants away, the atmosphere in the servants’ hall became a great deal more free and easy. Mrs Henderson mostly ate in her room, and Mary and Mr Wilkins did not mind us chatting at meal times - so long as we were careful not to gossip in front of them. Because Mrs Bragg was not there to cook for us, we were being paid board wages: a little extra to make up for not having proper meals. But Iris was still baking bread and rolls for the household, there were lettuces and tomatoes fresh from the greenhouse, butter and cheese in the dairy, and the but
cher called three times a week so we could buy ham and sausages. We did not suffer over much, and I was delighted to think of the extra money I could pass on to my mother.
The other wonderful thing was that a new piano had been ordered for Miss Eugenie, and Lady Vye sent word from London that the old one could be taken down to the servants’ hall for our entertainment. It turned out that Mr Wilkins could play very well, and we had some merry sing-songs in the evening. Miss Harriet and Master John took to having their supper with us and then staying on for a while afterwards to join in. Master John had become particularly special to me since his accident (what a long time ago that seemed now!) and he would often come and sit on my lap, which made me feel very comfortable and motherly.
Things would have been perfect - if only I hadn’t been so worried about Iris. She seemed to become sadder and more withdrawn as the weeks went by; as though she had retreated inside herself to a place where I couldn’t follow.
‘Come for a walk with me,’ I coaxed her one Sunday afternoon. ‘There are still a few bluebells left in the woods, and Miss Harriet says the swallows are here. Let’s go down to the lake and see them!’
But she only shook her head and turned back to her book. ‘You go, Polly. I’m not up to much today.’
Iris hadn’t been up to much for some time, I thought. She didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything, and the sad fact of the matter was, we were drifting apart. It’s hard to stay close to someone when there’s a secret sitting between you like a rock, no matter how hard you try to pretend it’s not there. How could I help her if she wouldn’t talk to me?
There was one time when I thought Iris came close to opening up. Once the spring cleaning was over, there was not much to do around the house until the family came back, so Mrs Henderson told me to work with Iris in the still room, making marmalade. The gardeners had brought in baskets full of plump, sour oranges from the hothouse: they had to be boiled for a good two hours and then cut into tiny chips before being boiled up again with sugar. A tall white sugar cone sat on the table, hard as marble, which we would have to break into chunks.
We had been talking about Miss Eugenie, who was apparently being courted by the Duke of Cheveny’s older son, the Earl of Hitchingham - or so Becky had heard from Jemima. Iris told me that she didn’t think much of this young man. When he had visited Swallowcliffe with his parents the previous autumn (they only lived in the next county), he had followed her down a passage and tried to kiss her. ‘He had his hands all over me too,’ she added, laying down the nippers. ‘Ugh! It was horrible.’
I was shocked to hear it. ‘Whatever did you do?’
‘I pushed him away, good and hard, and told him I’d scream the house down if he didn’t leave me alone. That frightened him off pretty quick, I can tell you.’
‘But we should let Miss Eugenie know what he’s like! What if he ended up proposing to her?’
Iris smiled, rather sadly. ‘Do you think anyone will believe me if I say what happened? The whole thing would end up being my fault, you can be sure of that. They’d say I led him on and then made a fuss when he took me at my word.’ She started to attack the sugar cone again. ‘Anyway, just because he did that to me, doesn’t mean he’ll treat Miss Eugenie the same way. Some of these gentlemen will try things on with a maid that they wouldn’t dream of doing to a lady. You get the odd one who’ll treat us both the same, but they’re few and far between.’
She hesitated and I wondered whether she was about to say something else, but then she only sighed and laid down the nippers, and the moment was gone. ‘This thing’s as hard as a rock. We shall have to take the meat cleaver to it.’
That was quite a performance. Fragments of sugar ended up flying all over the place, but at last we had enough broken off to make up the syrup. ‘Miss Eugenie will probably do all right for herself,’ Iris said, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘She’ll end up the mistress of some big fancy house with lots of girls like us, no doubt, to keep it clean and comfortable. I wouldn’t mind being in her shoes and neither would you, I should imagine.’
I wasn’t so sure about that. Of course it would be lovely to wake up in a nice warm room, with a fire blazing away in the grate, but I didn’t fancy the idea of someone creeping around in the dark, to lay it. I’d sooner look after myself than ask somebody else to do it for me; that’s how I was raised. Besides, whatever would I do all day, with nothing to keep my hands busy? Look at Miss Harriet: she was bored to death half the time, even though the new governess had arrived. She couldn’t give two pins about those things that Eugenie was so good at: French and embroidery and poetry, and tinkling away on the piano.
‘Don’t go worrying about Miss Eugenie,’ Iris told me, when the marmalade was bubbling away on the stove. ‘There’s no need to take the cares of the world on your shoulders. Just you look out for yourself, Polly - nobody else will.’
She was probably right, I thought, taking a deep breath of that sour, bitter-sweet tang of oranges and hot sugar which was to stay in our clothes and hair for days afterwards. I can never smell boiling marmalade now without thinking of Iris.
Because Iris was so preoccupied, I found myself spending more time with Miss Harriet. Things would have to change when the family came back, but in the meantime, nobody seemed to mind us going about together on my afternoon off or in the evenings, now that they were drawing out. She showed me all sorts of mysterious corners in the house that I’d never have found on my own: a part of the attic which was full of old furniture and chests of musty clothes; the tiny cell behind a wall in the drawing room, where a priest had once hidden when Henry the Eighth’s soldiers came looking for Catholics; false shelves of books in the library which opened up to reveal a narrow, twisting staircase.
One sunny June afternoon, Harriet and I climbed out on to the roof through a sash window in the corridor opposite our maids’ bedroom. She followed me along a narrow walkway between two chimney stacks and we came out on a flat part of the roof, like a square courtyard looking up to the blue sky above. It was quite safe, being shut in by more chimney stacks and a balustrade which ran all around the edge of the roof, and so private - just the place to talk. The weather had turned very hot at the beginning of the month, so we maids would sometimes sit out there at night for an hour or so when it was too hot to sleep in the attic room, whispering together so Mrs Henderson wouldn’t hear us. I was glad to have somewhere to show Harriet in return. Besides, I’d been wanting to persuade her to take more account of her new governess; now was the perfect time to do it.
Miss Habershon, that was the governess’s name, and she interested me a great deal. I had never seen anyone like her before. She was small and neat, with straight brown hair drawn back in a knot at the nape of her neck, and dressed all in black like an old crow, with not a scrap of lace or trimming to be seen. ‘Well, no chance of His Lordship being led astray by that one,’ Becky commented when we first saw Miss Habershon, and her appearance did take some getting used to - especially in one so young, for she couldn’t have been more than twenty. After a while, though, I began to think that being got up so plain quite suited her: you looked at her face, not her clothes, and then you noticed her pearly skin and clever dark eyes, drinking everything in.
She once came across me looking at a book from one of her shelves when I was meant to be dusting the room, but she didn’t seem to mind. She told me I could take it away to read if I liked (which I did, having always been a great reader at school), and that I could borrow another one when I’d finished. It was a story by Charles Dickens called Great Expectations, which I thought sounded very interesting - having some expectations of my own - and it must have had a great deal more to it than Iris’s novelettes, because I couldn’t go to sleep without reading a few pages every night, and had to beg another candle from Jane to finish it. So I was very kindly disposed towards Miss Habershon, and thought Miss Harriet should have paid her more attention.
‘She knows about all sorts of things,’ I
said, once we were comfortably settled against a chimney. ‘You should see the piles of books in her room - and there’s a microscope. She has one of those new bicycles, too. Perhaps she could teach you to ride it.’
‘She shouldn’t even be there!’ Harriet glowered. ‘It’s Nanny Roberts’ room, not hers. I don’t want anything to do with her, or her microscope, or her precious bicycle. She looks ridiculous on it, anyway. The gardeners were laughing at her yesterday.’
I could tell it was time to hold my tongue, though I was disappointed Miss Harriet should think that way. ‘Anyway, Rory and Edward will be home next month for my birthday,’ she said, holding her face up to the sun. ‘There’ll be no time for lessons then.’
The family were probably ready for a break in the countryside, although the London season was still in full swing. Who wants to be stuck in a hot, noisy city in the summer, when you could be paddling in a cool stream or walking in the shade of a wood? There would be some other guests from London coming down a little later too, including - and this was most exciting of all - the young American lady, Miss Brookfield, and her mother. We had a good chat about that in the servants’ hall, as you can imagine. I wanted to learn as much as I could about Miss Brookfield, because Mrs Henderson had told me that I was to act as her maid for the visit (Mary, Becky and Jane all being occupied with the married ladies). Apart from Miss Harriet, I had never maided for anyone before, and was feeling quite nervous about it. What if Miss Brookfield realized how young and inexperienced I was? What if I could not manage her hair?
Polly's Story Page 7
