Forever Yours

by Rita Bradshaw

  ‘He drowned?’ Constance’s fingers were pressing her mouth.

  ‘Aye, hinny, he drowned.’

  ‘But why didn’t me grandma write? I would have come home.’

  ‘She knew you would, which is why she didn’t tell you. That man, that McKenzie fella, was on her mind. She said you couldn’t do owt so what was the point in stirring all that up again? And she was right, lass. When you’ve had a chance to think about it you’ll see that. You couldn’t have done nowt, now could you?’

  Constance wiped her eyes, her voice shaking as she said, ‘But the house? Has she been turned out?’

  ‘Oh don’t you worry your head none about your grandma, hinny. Your aunties were fighting each other to have her live with them, but beens as Beryl moved to Kimblesworth when your Uncle Jacob died and she met Percy, your grandma’s opted to live with Molly so she can stay in the village. There’s only your Aunt Molly and Uncle Edwin at home now the bairns have grown up, and the three of ’em get on just fine. Molly an’ your grandma’ll be company for each other when Edwin’s at work. I said for her to come to us, but she wouldn’t; like I said, she wanted to stay where she knows everyone and everyone knows her. It’s only natural, I suppose.’

  ‘My granda never has one too many, not like some.’

  ‘Aye, I know that, hinny.’ Ivy didn’t add here that Mabel had said the very same thing and that her sister wasn’t convinced about the circumstances of her husband’s demise. There was something funny about all this, Mabel had said. She knew it in her water. But a woman’s water wasn’t sufficient reason for further investigation regarding a man’s death, not when the individual concerned was merely a miner and a miner who had been drinking at that.

  Constance stared down at her fingers twisted together in her lap. She could hardly take in that her granda had gone and she hadn’t been able to say goodbye. The accident, the funeral, her grandma leaving the house – it had all happened and she hadn’t known a thing about it. Before this moment she had always held on to the fact that if things got too bad here, if she really couldn’t stand it a minute more, she could go home to her grandparents. But she had nowhere to go back to now; her home had gone.

  She took a deep breath. Cook had been kind in letting them use her room but she knew better than to take advantage and linger. Ivy had inadvertently chosen a day when the family were giving a large dinner party. Already the atmosphere in the kitchen was so tense the air crackled. She would have to do her grieving when she was alone in bed tonight; for now, she must get on with what was required of her.

  She stood up, her face chalk-white and her eyes red-rimmed. ‘I’d best get back downstairs, Aunt Ivy. Do you want to stay here and I’ll bring you a tea-tray shortly? It’s busy in the kitchen.’

  ‘Aye, Florence let me know I hadn’t picked a good day to turn up,’ Ivy said wryly. ‘That’s a good idea, hinny. I’ll be out of the way up here. I can talk to Florence later once I come down for a spot of supper when the dinner party’s done.’

  After Constance had closed the door to Florence’s room behind her, she stood on the landing without moving for a moment or two. Her granda, her lovely granda. And her grandma having to move in with Aunt Molly. Her grandma would have hated getting rid of the furniture she and Granda had collected so painstakingly over the years. They hadn’t had much and what they did have wasn’t of the best, but her grandma had been proud of it nonetheless. But there wouldn’t have been room at Aunt Molly’s for more than a few keepsakes.

  Hot tears were stinging the backs of her eyes but she blinked them away furiously. Squaring her slender shoulders, she lifted her chin. Her grandma would be making the best of things and that’s what she had to do. She would give her Aunt Ivy her wages to date to take to her grandma; her grandma would be happier if she was paying her way at Aunt Molly’s and the sale of the household furniture wouldn’t have brought much. And she’d ask her aunt to tell her grandma that she’d send her more every month from now on. She couldn’t do much for her grandma stuck here, but she could do that at least.

  This was the start of a new life. It had probably been so when she’d first come to Grange Hall in the spring, but it hadn’t felt like it at the time. But now, now it did. And she would give ten years of her life or more if she could just slip back in time to a year ago when she was happy. To see her granda puffing his pipe in front of the fire, her grandma humming to herself as she bustled about the kitchen, and Matt— Oh Matt, Matt . . .

  PART TWO

  Through the Green-Baize Door

  1900

  Chapter 9

  It was the dawn of a new century and Britain was celebrating.

  According to the newspapers, the extent of Britain’s imperial powers had never been greater. ‘The Empire, stretching round the globe, has one heart, one head, one language and one policy,’ stated one positively euphoric reporter, conveniently ignoring the matter of the Boer War which had begun a few months before. But then no one was in any doubt that the fight with the ‘stubborn breed of Dutch peasants who had revolted against the just and noble sovereignty of our glorious Queen’ would soon be over, and that Britain would be victorious.

  Everyone knew that the previous century’s unparalleled success and expansion would continue, bringing more wealth and prosperity to Britain’s citizens. Or to its upper classes at least, which was all that mattered. Was not the Master and Servant Act, which entitled only the employer to give evidence in a court of law and not the employee, a clear guideline by those who knew best of the great divide between the upper classes and the working class? And, it had to be said, muttered politicians and magistrates alike, the working class often had none of the sensibilities which differentiated noble man from lowly beast.

  As for the trade unions – troublemakers and agitators the lot of them.What good did it do to incite ignorant men and women to refuse to do an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay? Keir Hardie with his Socialist prattling and the whines of the Independent Labour Party were damaging the well-being of ordinary men and women, not helping them.

  For Constance, whose life revolved around the goings-on in the kitchen of Grange Hall, such views and statements held little interest. She didn’t have time to reflect on her lot, she was too busy, and in the little free time she had she would rather read Mr Thackeray’s Vanity Fair or something by Jane Austen than a newspaper. They at least gave her hope that one day, maybe, her life might consist of more than kitchen duties, even though she was now third kitchenmaid.

  When Agnes had married her Cuthbert and become pregnant almost immediately, Teresa had taken her place as head kitchenmaid. Patience, Cathleen and Maria had each taken a step up the ladder and when Florence had promoted Constance to fifth kitchenmaid she had been overjoyed, even though she’d felt sorry for poor Gracie who – Florence had said – was born to be a scullerymaid and would die one. Within four years Teresa had left to become a cook in a small establishment in York, taking Patience with her – something Florence looked on as an act of betrayal and had waxed lyrical about for weeks. Constance got on well with Mirabelle and Clara, the two new kitchenmaids beneath her, and life in the kitchen of Grange Hall was not unpleasant, merely repetitious and humdrum.

  Try as she might, Constance found she just couldn’t get excited about a perfect salmon mayonnaise au Gridoni or a Charlotte Russe. She appreciated that Florence was an excellent cook, she was in awe of some of the dishes that went through to the dining room and by keeping her eyes and ears open she had quickly learned the French names for these, and what sauces and accompanying dishes were needed – but she didn’t long to be a cook like Cathleen and the others did. She now earned twenty-four pounds a year, most of which she sent to her grandma to enable her to contribute to Molly’s household expenses and have the odd little luxury for herself, like the Tiger Nuts and Everlasting Stripes that her grandma had always enjoyed.

  She had seen her grandma three times in the last six years since she’d left Sacriston, tha
nks to Ivy and her intrepid horse and trap. On each occasion Ivy had made sure her visit coincided with Constance’s free Sunday. Constance had relished the hours with her beloved grandma, but after the time had come to say goodbye and she had waved the two sisters off, she’d felt acutely homesick for days.

  She had made it a point of conscience never to ask after Matt when she corresponded with her grandmother, but Mabel mentioned him often. Through her, Constance had heard when Tilly had given birth to a little girl seven months into the marriage. Supposedly premature, her grandma had written, but the baby had been a good weight and like no premature bairn she’d ever seen. Still, they wouldn’t be the first betrothed couple to jump the gun and all was well that ended well. They’d called her Rebecca and she was the spitting image of her mother.

  There had followed a period of two or three years when her grandma had written about what Rebecca was doing and saying, and how the child was progressing. By all accounts she was a bright little girl. Gradually though, more by what was unsaid than said, Constance got the impression all was not well with Matt’s marriage. Then, just a few weeks ago, her grandma had written to say Ruth had confided she was worried about Matt. He’d become withdrawn since his marriage, non-communicative, and he was getting worse with time. Constance had found that hard to imagine. Matt had always been outgoing and sociable, not exactly the life and soul of the party but certainly affable and friendly.

  Her fingers stilled on the plate of hors d’oeuvres she was arranging. To celebrate the new century the Ashtons had invited both sets of in-laws and other family members and friends to stay for a few days over the New Year, and it had been one big dinner party after another. The kitchen staff were exhausted.

  But Matt wasn’t her problem to worry about, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time since receiving her grandma’s letter. She hadn’t seen him for years and of course men changed with the responsibility of a wife and family, it was only natural. It didn’t mean he and Tilly weren’t happy together. And even if they weren’t, they were married. End of story.

  ‘You finished, Constance?’ Florence bustled up, her face as red as a beetroot. Her critical eyes surveyed the pimentos, brilliant red and green foreign pickles, startling white and yellow slices of egg, pink curls of tongue and tiny rolls of cured ham, and black trails of truffles. She nodded approvingly, handing the plate to one of the housemaids who was waiting at the entrance to the kitchen.

  Without being told, Constance went over to help Cathleen transfer the two enormous saucepans of soup – one thick and one clear – into the warmed soup tureens. Both soups had been started two days before. The consommé had been cooled, had the layer of fat removed from the top, then reheated and cleared by dropping in eggshells and egg-whites so any bits of meat would rise with them to the top of the pot. Once the soup had been allowed to cool again it was reheated and the performance repeated. This time the meat stayed on the surface for an hour and a half before being skimmed off. After soaking a cloth in boiling water to ensure the stock passed through quicker, it was strained into the saucepan it would be reheated in for serving. Making the thick soup was an equally lengthy business, and because Florence was adamant that the quality of the soup revealed the calibre of the cook, everyone was on tenterhooks until she expressed her satisfaction that all had gone well.

  Several more courses would follow the soup. The menu for the evening was pinned to the wall so there was no excuse for anyone to say they didn’t know what was required of them. A saddle of beef with vegetables and salad was next, followed by a sorbet – pineapple ice with rum. Then the roast. Tonight it was rabbit and the animals were served on two enormous platters in a crouching position, complete with tails and by courtesy of judiciously placed skewers, with their heads on and ears erect. A choice of two sweets followed the roast, a tall and elaborate jelly with fruits inside, and an opaque blancmange. A savoury was next. This evening it was marrons en mascarade, Sir Henry’s favourite, and the braised chestnuts coated with a savoury stuffing and then half with grated ham and half with grated cheese was one of Florence’s specialities. Then more ices would be served to clear the palate for dessert – pineapples in ornamental beds of leaves, dishes of grapes with silver grape scissors, and strawberries and cream, along with the housekeeper’s crystallised fruits, sweetmeats and nuts.

  Constance knew she’d be lucky to be climbing the stairs to the attic before midnight, and the two scullerymaids wouldn’t fall into their beds until well after one o’clock in the morning. Every member of the kitchen staff was now longing for the next day when the guests were due to depart and normality would be resumed. And not just the kitchen staff. Listening to the chatter in the servants’ hall, the nanny and the nursemaids were exhausted too. As well as their usual charges – Miss Charlotte who was ten years old, Miss Gwendoline who had been born the year Constance had arrived at Grange Hall, and Master Edmond, the long-awaited son and heir whose third birthday had been celebrated shortly before Christmas – they’d had the care of several children of the guests who had apparently all run riot.

  ‘Bedlam, it’s been,’ Katy, one of the nursemaids, had muttered to Constance when she had flopped on her seat in the servants’ hall the day before. ‘And of course they’re all over-excited, it being the Christmas holidays, which doesn’t help. Master Edmond’s a handful at the best of times, but this week . . .’ She’d rolled her eyes expressively. ‘If he’d been one of my little brothers, he’d have had a good slap by now.’

  ‘But Master Edmond is not one of your little brothers,’ Betty, the head nursemaid, had said sharply. ‘He is the master’s son and don’t you forget it, Katy Mallard. A good slap, indeed! You let Nanny Price hear you talk like that and you’ll be out on your ear without a reference.’

  She’d glared at the unfortunate Katy who’d looked suitably chastened, but only for as long as Betty looked at her. Then she had whispered in an aside to Constance, ‘He put a worm in Nanny Price’s pocket yesterday and he knows she’s mortally afraid of them. Screamed like a two year old, she did. And how he got it with the ground so hard, I don’t know. He’s a little devil, that one. You never know what he’s going to do next.’

  Constance had caught the odd glimpse of the family over the years when Cook had sent her on errands to the glass-houses or dairy, but she had always made herself scarce as soon as she could. Sir Henry and his Italian-born wife Lady Isabella were a handsome couple, she as dark as he was fair, and the two girls were pretty in a fairly nondescript way. Edmond was as fair as his father, and a sturdy little boy. Katy had told her they had been forced to take him out of his infant dresses when he’d yelled the place down, and now he strode around in little breeches and a waistcoat like his father, and thought himself the bee’s knees.

  Constance had found it amusing, although Katy hadn’t been laughing. Master Edmond reminded her of the Finnigan twins, who had been in Miss Newton’s class and who had been characters with minds of their own. They’d tried her patience but she had to admit she’d found them more interesting than the bairns who did everything they were told and wouldn’t say boo to a goose.

  Once the soup tureens had been dispatched, the rest of the courses flowed as smoothly as a well-oiled machine. Abe Rowan and Florence worked well together. As butler he stood silently behind the master’s chair and kept a careful eye on the table. As each course progressed he judged the appropriate time to ring the dining-room bell and signal the kitchen, thus ensuring there was no delay between courses. Essential in such an eminent establishment.

  It was nearer one o’clock than midnight when Constance and the other kitchenmaids finally dragged themselves up to bed, leaving Gracie and the second scullerymaid still scouring pots and pans with sand and salt in the dark, dismal scullery. As one, they fell into their pallet beds just as they were, drawing the thin blankets up over their heads to combat the freezing cold. In the moment before Cathleen blew out the candle, thus plunging them into pitch blackness, Constance thought, Ho
wever will I get up in the morning? But then in the next instant she was fast asleep.

  Constance did get up in the morning. They all did. And when Florence walked heavily into the kitchen some time later after Lotty, the second scullerymaid, had taken up her tea-tray, she voiced what her staff were thinking when she said, ‘Thank the powers-that-be they’re all going home this morning. I’m dead on me feet and that’s no lie.’

  But before the guests left, breakfast had to be served, and that in itself was no mean feat. Just the fancy breads alone had had Constance and the other kitchenmaids rising even earlier than normal to get them underway. French and Vienna bread rolls, muffins, oat cakes, crumpets, breakfast cake, bannocks, whole-meal rolls and scones, and all baked fresh that morning. Add to this the rissoles, kedgeree, cold meats, hot meats, broiled eggs, omelettes and the inevitable porridge and choice of several preserves, and it was no wonder they all scrambled up to morning prayers breathless when the footman sounded the gong, pulling on clean aprons and straightening their caps as they went. After breakfast they dived back down to the kitchen to begin sending up the myriad dishes which had been kept warm for fifteen minutes.

  It was mid-morning by the time both family and guests, and the servants, had finished eating. Then all the dirty dishes were cleared and once the scullerymaids were tackling them the rest of the kitchen staff had a cup of tea before they started on the preparations for luncheon.

  Constance and the other kitchenmaids were sitting at the table too tired to talk as they finished their tea, but once Florence had drunk two cupfuls straight down with hardly a pause, she rallied her troops. Rising ponderously to her feet, she didn’t have to tell them to get to work. No one would dare to remain seated when Cook was standing. Everyone knew what they had to do but as Constance went to fetch a clean white cloth and lay out the spoons and knives and other equipment needed for the game pie Florence was about to make, Florence said, ‘Leave that, Constance. Maria will see to it. I want you to nip to the mushroom-house and bring me back a basketful, and a jug of cream from the dairy while you’re about it. That one they sent over first thing went at breakfast.’