London Lodgings

by Claire Rayner

  To have behaved in such a way was absurd. Mrs Leander had acted disgracefully in prying into her ailing mistress’s wardrobe but, after all, servants did that sort of thing all the time. Whenever Tilly visited with neighbouring families, the talk of servants’ peccadilloes was the most enthralling of subjects people could choose. It was ridiculous to have made such a fuss, she told herself, and began to dress for dinner.

  She chose one of her prettier modes to wear; a pink silk double-skirted gown with a bodice trimmed with a deep lace bertha which matched the flounces on the skirt. The crinoline was a modest one, not at all of the size and shape that some of the more fashionable women affected now, and she managed to put it on without any difficulty. Usually Eliza came and helped her with her corsets, but tonight she had decided she did not wish to be too constrained, pretending to herself that it was because she felt less than perfectly set up in her health, but knowing at a deep level that it was because she was afraid to do so. She knew little enough about the processes of childbearing, but had a hazy notion that it would not be right to constrict herself excessively. This was something to discuss with one who knew more. Alice perhaps? After all, they had been childhood friends, and women were expected to discuss these matters with their friends. And in the absence of a mother, who else could she consult?

  But that was an uncomfortable thought, so she banished it and instead concentrated on her toilette. She brushed her hair and pulled her usually modest ear puffs into a couple of ringlets on each side and fluffed up her fringe a little so that she looked, she felt, quite fetching. Then, after a moment’s thought, she reached into the drawer of the dressing-table where Eliza had set the blue velvet box and drew out the pearls. Should she? Did she dare?

  She did. Whatever her father said and whatever Mrs Leander thought, they were not going to be taken from her. It was bad enough that she had lost her spoons. She fastened the clasp with steady fingers and, lifting her chin with some pride, looked at herself again. She might not be a great beauty. She might not have the fire or the dimples or the excitement of the Alices of this world; she might be a small ordinary-looking person; but tonight she looked as well as any woman. And why should she not? She was the mistress of her household, a respectable married lady with an interesting secret, and as such was a person worthy of regard, and she left her room with her head up and a firm step to see how matters were progressing below stairs.

  She stopped first at the dining-room door and looked in. The table had been set for dinner and Eliza had done her best, but clearly it was far from right. The knives and forks and spoons had all been polished cleanly enough and the cloth was freshly laundered and the china and glass polished, but everything was in the wrong place and most oddly set, and she went round the table swiftly, rearranging it.

  Eliza had set three places, and she nodded at that. Frank, of course, must be home for dinner. Even after this morning’s scene – it seemed like aeons ago, so much had happened since – he could not dare stay out. After all, she had special news for him, and though it was foolish to think he could have any awareness of this and would therefore hurry home, surely, she thought, he might have some consideration of the possibility?

  Tilly went down to the kitchen, her nose leading the way. The smells were really delectable once she was through the green baize door, and she went down holding her crinoline well out of the way to find a sweating rumpled Eliza leaning over the fire with a large ladle in her hand.

  ‘Well, don’t you look set up, Mum!’ she said as she turned and saw Tilly. ‘Such a difference in you, it does me good to see it. I told you as a cup o’ tea and a bit of a nap’d set you up, now didn’t I?’

  ‘Indeed you did, Eliza,’ she said, a little stiffly, aware that the girl was becoming a great deal too familiar in some ways. It would not be sensible to allow it to go too far. ‘But that is enough about me. Tell me, if you please, the state of the dinner?’

  Eliza shot a sharp glance at her, but seemed to understand, for she straightened her back and with her other hand smoothed back her untidy hair.

  ‘Well, Mum, I done the meat like it said, adding the extra vegetables like, and turned it out into its dish, the way it said in the magazine. Shall I show you, Mum?’

  ‘If you please, Eliza.’ Tilly stood by the table with her hands folded on her crinoline and waited.

  Eliza, moving with great care, took a large cloth and with it opened the oven door, the one to the right of the open fire, where the heat was generally supposed to be a little lower than the one on the left which was closer and burned up hotter. She lifted out, with an occasional grunt of effort, one of the largest of the serving dishes the kitchen possessed and set it on the table.

  There was a tense moment as she turned to close the oven door and then returned to her dish and stood there with her hand poised above the polished steel cover, looking anxiously at Tilly as she did so.

  ‘Well, Eliza, take it off and let me see!’ Tilly said.

  Eliza removed the steel cover as she was told. The meat was tumbled in large chunks all over the plate, and piled high. The vegetables, which indeed looked fanciful in shape, had been piled equally higgledy-piggledy wherever there was a space. The effect was of great quantity, so great that it was almost repellent.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Tilly said without stopping to think and Eliza’s face crumpled.

  ‘But it’s cooked exactly like it says in the book, Mum! Take a taster and see if it don’t taste real good.’ And she seized a knife from the drawer and hacked off a piece of meat and held it out to Tilly on the point.

  ‘But I cannot –’ Tilly began and then stopped. She could not serve her father this food until she had made sure it was right, and tasting it was the only way to know. So she took the knife and, nibbling with uneasy delicacy, bit off some of the meat.

  It was tender and rich and the spiciness was very pleasant. She nodded slowly as she swallowed and said, ‘It tastes excellent, Eliza.’

  The girl lit up with pleased self-satisfaction and at once lifted up the steel cover ready to set it in place again and return the dish to the oven, but Tilly stopped her.

  ‘It must be made to look as good as it tastes, Eliza. Fetch me another dish. Not so large, I think –’

  Eliza gawped at her, puzzled, opened her mouth to protest, saw the set of Tilly’s jaw and closed it again. She went to fetch the plate.

  ‘I shall need a fork and spoon too,’ Tilly said. ‘And an apron to cover my gown, if you please.’

  Suitably protected against splashes she set to work, slicing the meat into more elegant pieces, though they were still a little ragged, and arranging them neatly in the centre of the clean plate. The vegetables she rescued from their disorder and set them prettily on each side, heaps of carrots, then small onions and then potatoes, so that there was some symmetry to it. At first Eliza watched with a scowl on her round face and then with a little more interest.

  ‘It is not necessary to send all of it to table,’ Tilly said. ‘This will be enough for the three of us, I am sure, and the rest may be set in a pie tomorrow, perhaps. We must think about that. But do you not agree that this looks more pleasant?’

  ‘It don’t look as good as a hungry man might want it to, Mum, and so I tell you,’ Eliza said with a return of her old bluntness. ‘But I suppose seein’ as you and the Master is gentry –’

  ‘Well, yes, Eliza. Now take your own dinner from this remainder, and set the plate in the larder. If you eat yours now you will be better able to wait at table afterwards.’ She stopped then and smiled widely at the girl.

  ‘You have done so very well, Eliza. Indeed you have. I could never have managed alone as you have done. I am sure you will soon be a very fine cook and will want to be leaving me for that Duke’s kitchen.’

  Eliza lit up as though a lamp had been set behind her eyes. ‘Oh, no, Mum, I’ll never leave you, not till you send me away. You’ve been that kind to me, Mum, why I’d do anything for you. I do love you, Mum.’ Her
face suddenly went bright red and her eyes filled with tears.

  Tilly was aghast. To receive so strong an avowal from a servant was not something she would ever have expected and she had no idea how to deal with it, so she bit her lip and shook her head and then said a little brusquely, ‘Well, that’s as may be, Eliza. But we really cannot waste time here talking – the Master will be home soon, I imagine.’ She glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘It is now gone six. So what else is ready?’

  ‘The soup’s in the pan to the back, Mum.’ Eliza covered her own confusion with a rush of busyness. ‘Taste that, if you please.’

  Obediently Tilly tasted it and although it bore a strong similarity to the meat she did not think that this mattered too much. Indeed it could not, for there was no time to replace it with another dish.

  ‘If there is time, make some sippets of toast to go with it,’ she said. ‘That will help. Now, the pudding …’

  ‘It’s still in the hot oven,’ Eliza said and reached for her cloth again. ‘We can take a peek like. It’ll need a bit of time yet, though.’

  Tilly duly peeked over her shoulder into the oven and saw the big brown dish with its heaped contents, which were just beginning to develop a golden glow on the crust, and nodded. ‘I am sure that will do well enough,’ she said and looked again at the clock. ‘Do hurry along now, Eliza. It would never do to keep him waiting.’

  She was getting nervous now, trying to imagine how her father would react to the dinner that would be set before him. For all her faults Mrs Cashman had known the right sort of victuals for a gentleman’s table. There would usually be an entrée as well as the soup, perhaps some devilled kidneys or chicken rissoles, and roast meat as well as stewed for a second course, after some fish. To be offered a bare three dishes could be enough to send Austen Kingsley into a frenzy of anger. Unless of course he liked them. She took a deep breath and thought of the gravy soup and prayed a little. It tasted well enough to her, but how would it taste to him?

  Eliza had already disappeared into the scullery and was washing. Tilly could hear the splash of the water from the pump and the sound of vigorous scrubbing and wondered whether the child had a clean apron; but she need not have concerned herself, for when Eliza reappeared her apron was as fresh as a daisy and her cap was set just so on her head. She looked what she was, a maid of all work, but not a slatternly one.

  There was a sudden noise outside the kitchen, and Tilly turned, startled, as the door burst open and Austen Kingsley stood there. She felt her face whiten, for he was glaring at her in the way he used to do when she was a child and had been discovered in some crime or other.

  ‘What are you doing here, Madam?’ he demanded. ‘Is this whole house run mad? I come home and discover my daughter sitting about in the kitchen, like some scullery maid!’

  ‘Not sitting, Papa,’ she said as levelly as she could and moved towards the door, desperate to get him out of Eliza’s hearing before he said more than Tilly thought a servant should hear. ‘I was supervising the preparation of your dinner, that is all. Shall we go upstairs? I would be glad of the keys to the wine cupboard so that we may choose a suitable wine for dinner. If you please, Papa.’

  She was at his side now, moving past him, hoping he would follow her, but he remained still.

  ‘Wine? For you? You don’t want wine!’ he shouted and she shook her head.

  ‘Indeed I don’t, Papa. But you and Frank, perhaps.’

  ‘Your husband? D’you think I’ll waste my good wine on that idiot who knows no better than to pickle himself in whatever comes out of a bottle and no notion of what quality is? I shall fry in hell first. Now, Madam –’

  ‘If you please, Papa!’ she said loudly, as Eliza gawped at Austen over Tilly’s shoulder. ‘I wish you would come upstairs so that we may discuss – well, whatever it is, there.’

  ‘There is naught to discuss. I am here to tell you to set another place at table. Madam, I insist that Mrs Leander sits with us tonight. She is much put about at some sort of flimflam here this afternoon. I tell you I have no interest in what it was about so don’t you try to tell me –’ for Tilly had opened her mouth to protest. ‘But see to it. I will not have any more fusses when I am at home. The woman wishes to sit at table and sit at table she shall. It will be better than having to wait on her, surely. Even you must agree on that. We shall have dinner at half of the clock, whether your precious husband be here or no.’

  He turned to look at the fireplace. ‘What is there to bring to the table? Good victuals, I trust. I’m as hungry as may be, and I have had enough of the sort of rubbish that –’

  ‘Excellent victuals, Papa,’ Tilly said, though her lips had dried in the surge of anger that followed her father’s announcement about Mrs Leander. ‘Not a number of dishes, but a good plain family dinner. You will have ample, I do assure you. But as to Mrs Leander –’

  ‘I will brook no refusal,’ Austen roared. ‘You hear me? No refusal at all. She was waiting to pounce on me as I walked through the door and I have had enough of it to last me till next week, and there’s an end of it. She shall eat with me, and so shall you and that is that. And the food smells good enough. Indeed, it smells quite – hmm –’

  He moved across the kitchen to peer down at the pots on the fire and Eliza moved forwards and bobbed a little curtsey.

  ‘Please Sir, would you like to taste, Sir? It’s good soup and if there’s aught you need different, why then –’

  ‘Aye, I’ll taste it,’ Austen said and Eliza reached for her ladle and with great care filled it. Both women watched, breaths held, as he sipped it.

  ‘Who made this?’ He gave the ladle back to Eliza and nodded sharply to tell her to refill it. ‘That cook woman come back?’

  ‘Indeed no, Papa,’ Tilly said. ‘Eliza –’

  ‘The Mistress,’ Eliza said at the same time and handed the ladle back to him, brimming this time, and he looked from one to the other sharply.

  ‘So, you’re making a cook of yourself, are you?’ he said to Tilly and laughed and supped up the ladleful with loud relish. ‘Not bad. Not bad at all. I’ve tasted worse at the club, let alone here with that hellcat woman cooking it. Well, if you can do as well as this, I shall see no reason to waste my cash on expensive cooks in future. Now, away with you, girl.’ And he leaned down and slapped Eliza’s rump playfully, but with a sharp power behind it. ‘Lay that extra place at table. And you, Madam – come and get that wine. Since there will be four of us, we might as well.’

  And he went out of the kitchen at last, leaving the two women to follow him, Eliza clearly pleased as Punch because he had liked her soup, and Tilly even more clearly dismayed by the prospect of sharing her dining table with Mrs Leander. But at least her father seemed content now, and no longer in a temper; so she just sighed and pushed open the green baize door to enter her own side of the house, longing for Frank to come home. Perhaps, now that he would be over his anger of the morning, once he knew her special news, he would stand up to Papa for her in the matter of Mrs Leander? It was a pleasant thought, and she cherished it.

  Chapter Twelve

  TILLY SAT BESIDE the morning-room fire, or rather the almost dead embers of it, and forced herself not to look at the clock. What was the point? Every time she did, it seemed the hands had not moved one iota, so why torment herself?

  Almost midnight. Around her the house had settled to silence, with just the occasional creak of a settling floorboard to highlight it. The creaking would increase, she knew, if she let the fire go out completely, for it was chilly outside and would soon become so within doors unless she fed coals to the embers. But still she did not move. It did not matter that she was cold. It would not matter if the house froze and fell down. Nothing mattered –

  She stirred then, and got to her feet and reached for the coal scuttle. This was silly. To sit here and be chilled to the marrow would not punish Frank for his defection. Only she would suffer. So she threw a shovelful of coal on and the embers took th
em greedily and smoke rose again to the chimney as she settled herself back in her chair.

  The evening had been perfectly dreadful. Her father had decided that the best action, when faced with sharing a table with two women who patently hated each other, was to eat and drink a great deal and ignore them both. He had set himself on the wine with great concentration and then eaten two vast platefuls of the beef. Mrs Leander had picked at her plate, all delicacy and would-be aristocratic sensitivity and Tilly had made not the slightest effort to eat any of the food Eliza set before her. All she could do was sit in frozen silence, wishing she were anywhere but where she was.

  The only good thing was that neither Mrs Leander nor, more importantly, her father, said anything about the pearls still clasped about Tilly’s neck. He looked at them sharply, opened his mouth to speak, glanced at Mrs Leander and then closed it again. At least he’d decided that discretion was wiser than confrontation, Tilly told herself drearily. I shall hear no more about these, at any rate. He cannot give them to her, not now. Oh, Frank, please come soon so that I can tell you about that as well as about – well, everything else.

  But Frank clearly had no intention of coming in time for dinner. The clock had crept round to half past seven and then to eight by which time her father had wolfed a great deal of the bread-and-butter pudding too, and had started on the second bottle of wine, and she knew herself to be defeated. She had consented to sit at table with Mrs Leander only because she was sure that Frank would arrive at any moment and put an end to her humiliation. Now, because he hadn’t, Mrs Leander had won. When she rose from the table at a quarter past eight and left the room, following Austen who had demanded that coffee be brought up to them in the drawing-room, she had thrown a triumphant glance at Tilly that said all that and more. From now on Mrs Leander was an established member of the family – pearls or no pearls – and that was that. Tilly could do nothing.