“There is Mrs Lorne,” Grace put in. “She would be happy to give them a bed, I daresay.”
“The widow on Church Lane? It is not far to walk, but the path is very overgrown. I can ask Mr Garmin to cut it back, I suppose. And what about meals? And Polly’s things would need to be boxed up and moved.”
“I’ll keep my things here, if it’s all the same to you, Mr Drummond,” Polly said. “I don’t mind sleeping under Dodie’s roof, but I’ll not leave anything where that light-fingered son of hers might be. And I’ll not eat there, neither. She’s no cook, poor Dodie. No wonder her husband upped and died.”
“That is unkind, Polly,” he said, frowning. “It is not to be supposed that Mrs Lorne has money to spare for claret and best beef. I am sure she does her best. However, there will be no need to prevail upon her for meals, only beds for the two of you. And in that case, Miss Dulcie’s things can go above the creamery, too. Where are your things, Miss Dulcie?”
“My box is at the end of the lane,” Dulcie said.
“Why did you leave it there?” he said.
“What a foolish question. Because it was too heavy to lift, of course. When you have seen Jess to the carriage, you can carry it down the lane.”
“So the three of you could not carry it between you, but you expect me to do so on my own? You must think me extraordinarily strong, Miss Dulcie.”
“Then how is it to be brought here?”
“There is a small cart we use for the wood. If your box will fit on that, we might manage to bring it ourselves, when our work permits. Otherwise you will have to wait for Bertie from the inn to come by, or one of the carriers.”
“But that might be days!” she exclaimed. “What will happen to my box if it should happen to rain?”
“It will get wet, I imagine,” he said coolly. “Would you be so obliging as to feed the chickens now?”
Fuming, Dulcie followed Polly back down the garden.
“This here bucket’s the feed,” Polly said. “Just scatter it, so they have to scratch around for it. Then collect the eggs from the coop, in here, see? Put them in the bucket and bring it up to the kitchen.”
And so began Dulcie’s life as an unpaid servant.
For three days, she managed fairly well. Her box was fetched on the cart, the meals were prepared, Mrs Lorne was welcoming. It was unpleasant having to rise from her bed not long after dawn, but the bed was no more than a straw-stuffed mattress with rough blankets, so sleep was elusive in any event. She learned to make porridge and bread, to boil up soups and stews and which vegetables should be peeled, sliced, grated or chopped up finely. The goat had a mind of her own, but graciously permitted herself to be milked when the mood took her. Polly showed Dulcie everything she needed to do, and so long as she made no complaint, was helpful and not unfriendly. But the moment Dulcie mentioned that her feet hurt or her head ached from the heat or her arms were sore from carrying or milking, Polly began to scoff.
“Ach, you’re too grand, that’s what you are. I knew you’d never last, so I did.”
Dulcie immediately determined that she would never give Polly the satisfaction of seeing her surrender.
But on the fourth day it rained, which is to say, it poured down without respite all day. It was the sort of weather where, had she been at home, Dulcie would have settled down to sort ribbons or buttons or pieces of left-over fabrics, so that Connie’s eye for colour could create clever combinations, and Belle’s nimble fingers could remake a bonnet or gown with fresh trimmings. But Belle was married and gone, Connie was busy with her own affairs, and Grace and Hope were too close to admit a third.
On her own at home, she might have a musical day. There was something soothing about sitting at the instrument, letting her fingers run over the keys and produce whatever random melodies they might find. Or the viola — that was enjoyable to play, as well, the notes liquid and full, filling her head with their resonance. In music, she could escape from whatever slights or injuries had been done to her.
Here, there was no escape, and everything was wet. The flour for the morning bread was damp, the latch on the chicken coop slipped under her fingers and scratched her, and the goat’s milking bucket and stool were so slippery that she dropped them with a clatter, startling the goat. It took half an hour to calm her down enough to be milked.
As if that was not enough, when she went out after breakfast to feed the chickens, she slid on the wet path and fell, muddying her gown and borrowed apron, and spilling half the feed. The chickens flapped and fluttered and pecked around her, trying to get at the spilt heaps of grain.
Dulcie scrambled away from them, abandoning the bucket altogether. Again her feet slipped from under her, and she landed hard on one elbow. She screamed with pain. Then, wet, exhausted and miserable, she sat in the rain and wept with frustration.
3: Saturday Evening
Polly bandaged her arm in silence, wise enough not to gloat openly, but enjoying Dulcie’s misery all the same. She was only human, after all. Alex Drummond had heard the screams and come through from the schoolroom to find out who was being murdered, but seeing the two women sitting in the kitchen and understanding the situation, he returned to his pupils. Polly, too, went off to do whatever it was she did in the wood store, and Dulcie was left alone.
She was supposed to be preparing the dinner, and it was a simple one, just some bacon pieces one of the village pupils had brought instead of a penny, and carrots and onions from the cellar. “A nice, plain stew — you can manage that by yourself, can’t you?” Polly had smirked. But Dulcie’s elbow throbbed, her soaked gown clung around her legs, and her hair dripped around her face. She allowed herself five minutes beside the fire, and a crust of bread left over from breakfast, for she was still hungry.
How was she ever to survive a month of this? It was all right for Mr Drummond, sitting in the schoolroom with his books and his blackboard and his map of the Empire. That was pleasant, undemanding work. And Jess perhaps had been raised to help out in the kitchen at home, and knew about stews and roasts and which vegetables needed to be peeled before cooking. As for Polly, she was born to such labour, and could carry pails of water all day without effort. But Dulcie was more gently brought up, used to nothing more arduous than a little stitchery. Every part of her screamed in protest at the unaccustomed effort. Her hands were reddened and chapped from water, and blistered from cutting up meat and vegetables. Her shoulders ached from carrying buckets and wielding the mop. It was hard, very hard.
The scullery door banged open and Polly came in, a basket of wood in her arms. “Dinner won’t make itself,” she said sourly.
With a sigh, Dulcie rose and set to work. On the previous days, one or other of her sisters had come to see her, and that had lightened the burden, even though they sat at the kitchen table chattering while she worked. Still, it had been companionable to have someone to talk to, and to hear of the improvement in Jess’s health, and tales of the Hall and the familiar life. Her old life, as Dulcie now thought of it. Miss Endercott came, too, bearing gifts of fruit or slices of cake for their supper, or a bucket of scraps for the pig. Today, regrettably, the rain would keep everyone away and her only company was Polly, who was anything but companionable.
As she sat at the table, chopping onions and crying — and who would have thought such a simple vegetable could have such a striking effect? — Mr Drummond came through.
“Are you all right?” he said quietly.
“As right as it is conceivable to be in this abominable place,” she snapped, trying to wipe her nose on her apron and only reaching her sleeve.
“This abominable place, as you so dramatically term it, is my home for the foreseeable future,” he hissed. “You will go back to the Hall to live in luxury in less than a month, whereas Jess and I have nothing to look forward to but grinding poverty for the rest of our lives. Perhaps you could reflect on that, Miss Allamont, instead of snivelling like a slighted scullery-maid because you have to do a
little useful work for a change.”
He stalked back to his pupils, and Dulcie was left to cry in good earnest.
~~~~~
The following day was Saturday. At breakfast, Drummond pushed away his porridge dish with a sigh of satisfaction.
“That was very good. I do believe you are getting the idea of cooking, Miss Allamont.”
“Porridge is easy,” she said, but pleased with the compliment nevertheless.
“When you remember to stir it,” Polly muttered.
Dulcie was about to spit out a venomous reply when she saw Polly watching her smugly, anticipating her response. She at once decided not to give her the satisfaction, and said nothing.
“I go to the Endercotts for dinner this afternoon,” Drummond said. “You are invited, too, in Jess’s place. We shall have a good meal there — nothing fancy, but two courses, and a very decent wine. Miss Endercott has excellent taste in claret. You need not wear an evening gown, just whatever morning gown is least muddy.”
His eyes twinkled attractively as he spoke. He could be so pleasant, when he was not snapping at Dulcie for some perceived misdemeanour. It was a pity she disliked him quite so strongly, for he was a handsome man, there was no denying it. Quite ineligible because of his poverty, of course, and no amount of twinkling eyes or charming smiles could render him otherwise.
“I am not sure I have the energy to make conversation,” she said, miserably. Even the effort of walking for ten minutes up the lane to the parsonage seemed too much for her exhausted bones at that moment. “I shall stay here with Polly until it is time to go to Mrs Lorne.”
“Polly goes to her sister at the farrier’s for her dinner on Saturdays. You will be quite alone if you stay here. Would you rather eat bread and cheese than beef and duck?”
“I think I would. Then I should be able go to bed early and get some sleep without the risk of disturbance from Polly’s snores.”
Polly grunted, but Drummond laughed. “As you wish. There may be a little of yesterday’s dinner left for you to reheat should you prefer a hot meal. And there is chocolate, if you want to make yourself some.”
“I thought you were saving that for Jess’s birthday?”
“So I am, but you may have a little, too, if you wish, in compensation for missing Miss Endercott’s claret.”
Saturday was also bathing day, and Dulcie was quite willing to help Polly carry the heavy hip bath to a spot in front of the kitchen range, and heat enough water to fill it. After days of sweltering heat, and her mud-bespattered battle with the chickens, she was thrilled to strip off her clothes and soak away the grime of her hard work. Only Polly’s grumbling — “There’s more’n you to get clean” — succeeded in getting her out of the tub. Once the two women were finished, they waited in the parlour while Drummond bathed.
He emerged from the kitchen resplendent in the clothes of a gentleman, the country style he affected in the schoolroom set aside for exquisitely tailored perfection. Dulcie had become so used to his usual drab attire, she had almost forgotten how smart he looked when properly outfitted.
“You look very well,” she said, in tones of such surprise that he burst out laughing.
“Thank you for the compliment, Miss Allamont — I think!” he said, sketching an ironic bow. Then, more seriously, he added, “There is still time for you to change your mind and come with me. Can I not tempt you to roast mutton, fish in a parsley sauce and fresh asparagus? And Miss Endercott’s finest claret, which I believe I may have mentioned before, as in my opinion it renders the occasion quite unmissable.”
She smiled but shook her head. “Go and enjoy your claret, Mr Drummond. I shall read one of your books for a while, and then go to Mrs Lorne. Polly, I hope you enjoy your evening, too.”
“Not very likely, with so many little ’uns racketing round the place. Make my poor head hurt, they do. Still, Patty’s got a nice bit of mutton for us, so I’ll enjoy that, even without any claret. Good night, Miss Allamont, and don’t forget to shut up the chickens, else the fox’ll have them.”
“I will remember.”
Then, with a clattering of shoes in the hall, and the creaking open and slamming shut of the front door, they were gone, and Dulcie had the house to herself.
For a while, she prowled round the parlour, which had partly-filled bookshelves on two walls. She pulled out one book after another, but they all seemed very dull — sermons or political tracts, or theological or scientific works, all printed in very small letters which hurt her eyes to read, and were anyway composed entirely of five-syllable words, it seemed. And, by contrast, poetry — whole shelves of poetry, of a florid and romantic nature, which surprised her rather. She had a sudden vision of Mr Drummond reciting poetry, his eyes intense. But she was not in the mood for poetry, and there was not a novel to be found anywhere.
When she grew tired of that, it occurred to her that there must be books of some sort in the schoolroom, so she went across the passage and opened the door. It was much the same size as the parlour, but instead of comfortable chairs around the fireplace and ornaments on the mantlepiece, there were rows of desks of various sizes and a lectern on a dais for Mr Drummond. Dulcie wandered around looking at the map of the Empire on the wall, the charts of printed and cursive scripts to be copied, and the girls’ samplers. On the wall above the dais, a picture of the King in his youth, torn from a newspaper, stared regally down at her.
She amused herself for a while drawing on a slate, but then she remembered that she was there to look for books. There was a low bookcase, but not many books in it, and they were very much children’s books — nursery rhymes, or rather moralising in tone. Her spirits were so low that she was not sure that such a book would help to alleviate them.
Out in the passage again, there was only the kitchen and scullery beyond the stairs, and there was nothing new or interesting there. But up the stairs… she should not, of course, she knew that perfectly well, but the temptation was so great. She had never been up to the bedrooms, for the role of chambermaid was one that Polly kept to herself. Just a quick peek, she told herself, five minutes and then back downstairs to set the porridge ready for the morning and round up the chickens.
She crept up the stairs one careful step at a time, watching for creaking boards, although there was no one near enough to hear. The little cottage had been positioned for the convenience of the gamekeeper, set on the edge of the woods and fields he cared for, and was some distance from the nearest habitation.
There were three doors on the landing, but the room over the kitchen was too low under the eaves to be used for anything but storage. She chose one of the other two doors at random. Inside, the bed had a pretty cover embroidered with flowers — Jess’s room, no doubt. It was a drab room, but the setting sun cast a golden glow over the unpolished wooden furniture and the faded rag rug on the floor. Apart from the neatly made bed, there was only a small wardrobe, a wash-stand and a little table with a chair, serving as writing desk and dressing table. Beside the bed, a small cabinet held a candlestick and Bible.
The wardrobe was uninteresting, just a few plain working gowns. No doubt all Jess’s fine clothes were boxed up in the room under the eaves. Dulcie was drawn to the cabinet beside the bed. It was quite wrong, she knew that perfectly well, but she could not resist opening the door. Inside were two shelves. A lacquered box on the lower shelf held a delicate pearl necklace, a couple of brooches, a dried flower, a ribbon so faded its colour could not be guessed. On the top shelf, a slim volume of poetry inscribed on the flyleaf, ‘A reminder of a delightful day, JM’ and the date. As she riffled the pages, another dried flower and a rectangle of card fluttered out. A calling card. ‘Jeffrey Middleton, Esq., Dalmorton Hall, nr. Birchbourne, Derbyshire’.
This must be the man Jess was in love with. Dulcie had never heard his name mentioned, but surely it could be no other, for the inscription was dated to the time when Jess had been in London. So this was the man she had expected to marry but who,
instead, had proposed something quite different. Dulcie was not quite sure how such an arrangement might work, for no one ever talked about such things in front of her. All she knew was that it was very bad, and would have ruined Jess’s reputation, although if she should die of a broken heart, perhaps the ruined reputation might have been preferable.
Hastily, Dulcie put everything back as it was.
Mr Drummond’s room was very similar, except that the cover on the bed was a checkered pattern. His wardrobe was equally uninteresting, but the cabinet beside the bed was full of letters, both shelves filled with them, not tied into neat piles or folded, but stuffed in anyhow, unfolded.
One word jumped out at her from the nearest sheet — ‘Glenbrindle’. That was where Mama’s older sister lived, far away in the wilds of Scotland. Mr Drummond must know the family, then. Her aunt and uncle, her cousins, all quite unknown to her, no more than names, yet here were letters from them. The desire to read them, to find out something, anything, about that part of her family was overwhelming.
No, she must not. Dulcie closed the door firmly, and walked away, determined not to look. Letters were too private, even for her.
But she could not leave. Twice she walked across the room to the dormer window, then back to the bed, curiosity and scruples warring within her. Curiosity won. She knelt down on the rag rug beside the bed, opened the cabinet door and drew out a sheaf of letters. Then she settled down to read.
Her eyes flew to the bottom of the letter — ‘Ever yours, Isobel’. Isobel of Glenbrindle? Was that one of her cousins? She rather thought it was. And if Isobel was writing to Mr Drummond, that could only mean that they were betrothed.
Her conscience smote her severely at this point. Letters between a man and his future wife were too personal to be read by anyone else, yet she could not make herself stop. She quickly scanned the first letter, then the second and yet a third, as if reading them quickly alleviated the enormity of the wrong she was committing. Yet there was nothing personal about them, just the trivial doings of the family. ‘Such a quantity of strawberries gathered today — we shall have so much jam!’ ‘Another letter from Maxwell. He is well, and has seen no action now for a month. Says he is very bored, but Papa frets over him anyway.’ ‘Another splendid ball at the W’s. Danced every dance, feet aching so much! Very good supper, you would have loved it.’
Dulcie (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 4) Page 3
