The Innkeeper's Daughter

by Val Wood

  She fantasized about the manor house, if that was where he lived, as Johnson said, and imagined a great hall with a fireplace at one end and a wide staircase like a picture in a book she had seen. Miss Hawkins had often lent her books and Bella had always wrapped them in brown paper so that they didn’t get dirty.

  And how lovely to be able to see the sea from his bedroom. That must have been what he meant, when he said upstairs. And his sisters, they’ll be pretty I expect and dressed in white dresses, probably to their ankles if they’re only eight and ten, and his mother, what would she wear? A crinoline probably with a very large hoop beneath it and—

  ‘Bella! Wake up.’ Joe’s voice was harsh. ‘Don’t just stand there. Wash these glasses, will you!’

  She nodded and took dirty glasses from the counter and put them in the washing-up bowl. Yes, she thought. Stop your daydreaming, Bella. This is your life; don’t think of any other.

  CHAPTER NINE

  EARLY CHRISTMAS EVE morning after Henry had been fed, Bella carried him in his crib into the taproom whilst Nell, under her mother’s watchful eye, cleared away the breakfast things and, following Sarah’s instructions, chopped onions, minced goose liver and giblets, added suet, sage and parsley, whisked in an egg and put the mixture into an oven dish in preparation for the next day.

  ‘My eyes are streaming,’ Nell complained. ‘I can’t see!’

  ‘You don’t need to see.’ Her mother picked up the dish. ‘I’ll put it in ’oven. Don’t go away,’ she warned as Nell shuffled towards the door. ‘There’s chestnut stuffing for ’inside of ’goose to be made now.’

  ‘We’ll never eat all this, Ma,’ Nell grumbled. ‘There’s enough here for an army. Are we having Christmas pudding?’

  ‘Yes. I did two last year and we onny ate one. We’ll have that.’

  ‘And can we have syllabub and frumatty? I love syllabub.’

  ‘I thought you said there was too much food.’ Her mother permitted herself a rare smile. She hadn’t smiled much since Joseph’s death.

  ‘Oh, but they’re special for Christmas,’ Nell said. ‘We’ve got to have them.’

  ‘The wheat’s been simmering all night for ’frumatty,’ her mother said, ‘so when you’ve finished ’next lot of stuffing I’ll show you how to mek it, and syllabub as well, so that you’ll know for another time.’

  Nell shook her head. ‘It’s our Bella you should be showing, Ma. I’m going on ’stage. I shan’t need to know about things like cooking and baking.’

  Her mother grunted. ‘Bella already knows what to do. She learned when she was younger than you. You’ve been spoiled, m’lass. Time now that you start to help in ’kitchen, and don’t think about going on ’stage cos you’re not. Your father wouldn’t have allowed it and I shan’t either.’

  Nell said nothing, but her lips set in a pout and her mother saw the expression of determination and knew that she had a rebel on her hands. She’s not like our Bella, she thought. This young madam is as stubborn as her brothers. They’re all ’same, and onny do what they want to do. They think I don’t know, that I don’t notice, but I do. Sarah was aware that she was condoning their behaviour, but she was too tired, too lethargic and wretched since Joseph’s death, to care or make any effort. Even the birth of Henry had brought her no joy and she had handed him over into Bella’s safe keeping with considerable relief.

  Bella dusted and then decorated the taproom with holly and ivy and pushed two tables together, covering them with a white cloth. She put out glasses and jugs for the beer and collected plates and bowls and spoons from the kitchen and put those out too. Then she took Henry back into the kitchen for his mid-morning feed and went down to the cellar to check the barrels of ale which had been delivered two days before to give them time to settle and be ready for the Christmas customers; Joe had been up late again and hadn’t had time to go in the cellar, or so he’d said, and William had told her that she looked after the ale, the casks and the pipe lines much more efficiently than he did anyway.

  That was true, she thought, but she’d had to learn. The customers wouldn’t tolerate flat beer, nor did they like to see sediment in their glass; most of them preferred their beer to be still active, to be able to detect the slight taste of yeast in their pint and see a good head on it.

  After they had eaten their midday meal, she and Nell filled plates with spice cake, mince pies and pork pies and took them into the taproom, together with two large bowls, one containing Sarah’s frumatty – a yeoman farmers’ dish made with crushed wheat, spice, currants and sultanas, sugar, rum and cream – and the other holding syllabub, a rich dessert made from cream, wine and brandy and whisked with egg white until it was light and fluffy. Bella took a taste of the frumatty and syllabub on the tip of a spoon and pronounced that her mother hadn’t lost her touch; both, she said, were delicious.

  ‘Come and sit down, Bella,’ her mother said when she returned to the kitchen. Sarah had been preparing a punch to offer the customers and the room was drenched in the aroma of brandy, nutmeg and cinnamon. ‘You’ve been on your feet all day. Nell, you can look after Henry, but first mek us a good cup of tea, and don’t grumble,’ she added, seeing the stubborn look on her daughter’s face. ‘Bella’s been up since five, and she deserves a rest.’

  Nell made the tea but with bad grace, and then took Henry up from his crib, but the novelty of looking after the baby had worn off quite quickly and she made a great fuss about changing him; he bawled and yelled and wouldn’t settle with her until eventually Bella said, ‘Give him here, for goodness’ sake.’ She relaxed back into the easy chair, his head snuggled into her neck, and within minutes they were both asleep.

  Nell slipped away out of the door, but Sarah sat watching Bella and the baby as they slept and slowly nodded her head. ‘I’m sorry, Bella,’ she murmured. ‘You’re young to tek on such responsibility, but it seems that ’bairn’s more yours than mine.’

  When Jamie Lucan called in at the Woodman the week before, he had indeed tethered his mare in one of the stalls behind the inn. It was apparent that the stables were no longer used for their original purpose, but contained stacks of timber, presumably for the fire, and gardening tools, a hay rake, a hoe and a scythe, which were hanging on hooks on the walls. There were metal watering cans and a wooden wheelbarrow, but one stall was empty and it was here that he stabled Bonny whilst he went inside for refreshment.

  It wasn’t that he was tired from his journey; on the contrary, he relished being out in the country after two weeks in the town. He always took his hat off and pushed it into his saddle bag so he could relish the wind in his face; he liked to feel the power of his mount beneath him and she, too, seemed to savour the wide open road after spending her days in the Hull stables and her evenings trotting round the Hull streets with an occasional canter in Dock Green, the open space near the Humber not far from Jamie’s lodging house.

  No, he wasn’t in need of refreshment, but when he reached the inn he was halfway home and during the last half he kept his mount at an amble, rather than a canter, trying to make the journey longer than it actually was. He loved the countryside and his home, though the latter not as much since his mother’s death three years before. He looked forward to seeing his sisters, but his father and his brother diminished the pleasure of his fortnightly visit; his brother, Felix, venting his sarcasm on his academic ability, and his father constantly upbraiding him for wanting to continue with his studies rather than joining him and Felix in the running of the estate.

  He was a mile from home and the salty smell of the sea on the breeze lifted his spirits. It was a clear night and the sky was full of bright stars. He had seen no one on the last part of the journey, even though it was not very late. He’d passed through the hamlets of Mappleton and Aldbrough and all was quiet but for the gentle susurration of the sea on the shore below the cliffs; on the road an occasional cottage burned a single lamp in a window whilst others were dark and shuttered, their inhabitants bedded down
for the night.

  As he breathed in the frosty night air, he thought of Bella, the girl in the inn, who said she had once been to the seaside. He’d wished he could have talked more to her, but one of her brothers, a sullen chap, he thought, with no conversation, seemed to be always watching her as if she might stray if he were not there to guide her. Or perhaps he thinks I mean her harm. It must be difficult since their father’s death; he must feel responsible for her. Working in an inn, even if it is a family business, is not suitable work for a vulnerable young woman.

  When she brought the baby into the bar back in November, for a moment I thought it was hers and was filled with misgiving, worriedly and wrongly thinking that she’d been outraged or seduced. I did not think that she was wanton, for she seems modest, even though she’s open and friendly. I was relieved when she said that he was her brother and glad to be able to talk to her. She was interested to hear about my sisters too, but didn’t press for too much information as some might have done.

  He passed through the gate leading to the Lucan land and manor house and sighed, his thoughts still on Bella. Frances or Mary wouldn’t have anything to say to her, of course; they wouldn’t speak to a village girl, though my mother would have done. They are being taught by example by Felix, who is the biggest toffee-nosed arrogant upstart ever.

  Lamps were lit in the drawing room, and as he approached the house it looked warm and inviting. That was Mrs Greenwood’s doing, he thought. The housekeeper, who had been there for years, still kept up the same high standards as his mother would have expected of her.

  He rode to the back of the house and stabled Bonny, removing her saddle and bridle and fastening a rug over her. Then he whistled up the wooden steps to where their stable lad, Bob Hopkins, slept.

  ‘Are you awake, Bob?’ he called, not too loudly for he knew the lad always went to bed early, being an early riser. There was no reply, so he felt his way round the dark stall and dipped his fingers in the water trough and felt the cold fresh water; he breathed in the scent of clean straw bedding and knew that Bob had prepared for Bonny’s homecoming.

  ‘There you are, Bonny, supper’s waiting for you.’ He stroked the mare’s neck as she reached for the hay rack. ‘You’ll be all right until the morning.’

  He heard a thud from the loft and realized that he had after all wakened Bob.

  ‘That you, Master Jamie?’ Bob’s voice croaked at him as he came with his lopsided gait down the steps. ‘Sorry, I meant to stay awake till you got home, but I nodded off.’

  ‘I’m a bit late,’ Jamie said. ‘Got held up. Go back to bed, but put Bonny out to grass in the morning, will you, and then later I’ll take her down to the sands for some exercise.’

  ‘Aye, she’ll be ready for that after being cooped up in ’stables.’

  ‘Oh, I take her out every evening,’ Jamie was quick to say, ‘but it’s not the same as having a gallop.’ He paused. ‘Is everything all right? No difficulties?’

  Bob shook his head. ‘No, not really. You’ll be glad to be home, I expect? Finished now for Christmas.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jamie said slowly. ‘Of course.’

  He knew his brother was always scathing of Bob, who could never do anything right for him despite being a most conscientious worker. His job in particular was to look after the home horses: Mr Lucan’s, Felix’s, Jamie’s when he was at home and the ponies belonging to Frances and Mary. He was also expected to help with the care of the farm horses, or hosses, as he called them, under the firm eyes of the foreman and waggoner, as well as checking that the hooves and shoes of the working horses were kept in good condition, calling in the farrier when required and keeping clean and polished the snaffles, bridles, collars, saddles and riding boots belonging to the Lucan family.

  He didn’t work with the other horse lads out in the fields as he was very lame, having been born with a club foot, and the reason that he had a job here at all was because his mother was the Lucans’ cook and Mrs Lucan had sympathetically insisted that her husband should employ him as soon as he reached fourteen. That was ten years ago and he was now regarded as a fixture at Lucan Grange.

  ‘I’ll be off then,’ Jamie said reluctantly, picking up his bag, which contained Christmas presents he had bought for his sisters, brother and father. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Aye, you will,’ Bob said. ‘Have a good night, sir.’

  Jamie walked slowly round to the front door. Mrs Greenwood would have supper ready for him no matter what time he arrived, even if the rest of the family had eaten. A tray would be waiting, with beef and bread and hot soup if he wanted it. But he felt no joy at returning home, even though it was Christmas. The heart had gone out of the celebration since his mother was no longer here. It seemed to him that his father became more dour with every passing year and his brother sharper and more disapproving.

  His sisters would be pleased to see him, he thought; they would smile and hug him, which they never did with Felix, and demand to know what was happening in Hull and – whispering – whether he had been to any concerts or melodramas. They understood that this was a most decadent thing to do, an opinion impressed upon them by Felix. To attend such places was immoral and degenerate and for Jamie to have admitted that he had done such a thing, not once but three times, had raised him up several notches in their estimation, much higher than he might have expected and to a level that would have surprised him had he realized.

  The front door was unlocked, and as he opened it and stepped inside the wide hall Mrs Greenwood appeared at the top of the kitchen stairs.

  ‘Good evening, Master Jamie. I thought I heard you arrive.’

  Though the housekeeper behaved impeccably, never stepping out of her position within the domestic arrangement, Jamie knew her to be very warm-hearted. This had become apparent after Mrs Lucan had died and she had comforted him and told him that it was all right for a young man of fifteen to cry over his mother’s death, that he might prefer to do it in private, but not to think any less of himself for doing so.

  ‘We aren’t human if we’ve no emotion,’ she had said softly, ‘so don’t be ashamed of tears.’

  And so in the privacy of his bedroom he had wept copiously and when in public or in the company of his father and brother was able to contain himself as was expected of him.

  ‘How are you, Mrs Greenwood?’ he said now. ‘Busy in the run-up to Christmas?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘Your father has succumbed to your sisters’ appeal that we might decorate ’house this year. They want your help with gathering ivy and holly – there’re lots of berries this year. Sign of a hard winter to come, so they say, and they’ve asked for pine logs to burn on ’fires so that ’house smells nice. I think Mrs Hopkins’s been telling them what she used to do when she was a child.’

  ‘They’ve been downstairs?’

  Mrs Greenwood nodded. ‘They were asked if they’d like to stir ’Christmas pudding a couple of weeks back and were very excited about it. They asked their father if they could have some thripenny bits to drop in it. Dear me,’ she exclaimed. ‘Here am I blethering on and you must be wanting your supper. There’s cold ham and beef and pork pie, and Cook has opened a jar of her walnut pickle that will go nicely with it. Apple pie?’

  ‘Oh, that’s plenty, Mrs Greenwood, thank you. Just lay a tray for me. Is Father still up? Or my brother?’

  ‘Gone to bed, both of them, but there’s still a warm fire in ’sitting room. Shall I bring ’tray in there? And a drink? You must be parched after your long ride home.’

  ‘A small glass of Mrs Hopkins’s ale, please,’ he said. ‘And then I too will go to bed. No need to wait up for me; I’ll damp down the fire and turn down the lamps before I go up.’

  ‘Will you, Master Jamie?’ Mrs Greenwood raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled. ‘I do know how. I do it every night in my lodgings.’

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I don’t have to worry about you then.’

>   ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Nobody does.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘GOOD MORNING, FATHER.’

  Jamie came down to breakfast in his riding breeches and old tweed jacket. There was an aroma of roasted coffee beans in the breakfast room and on the sideboard were several lidded dishes containing bacon, kidneys and smoked fish. On the table was fresh bread and glass dishes with butter, marmalade and honey. He helped himself to coffee and sat down at the table opposite his father.

  ‘James.’ Roger Lucan nodded, barely looking up from his plate.

  ‘How are you, Father?’

  ‘All right,’ he muttered. ‘You were late home last night.’

  ‘Ten o’clock. Not so late. We, erm, the fellows, you know, were chatting, being the end of term, before leaving to come home.’

  His father grunted. ‘I suppose you don’t have time to chat during term!’

  ‘Actually, no, we don’t, not often anyway. And I generally go out and exercise Bonny after study.’

  ‘Hmm. How long now before you finish?’

  Jamie swallowed. He knew what this was leading up to. ‘July,’ he said, ‘and that reminds me.’ He fished in his pocket. ‘There’s a letter here from Mr Sollitt.’

  His father reached across the table to take it. ‘I trust he’s not still going on about you going to university. I told him no last term.’

  Jamie put down his cup. His appetite, which was usually hearty, had deserted him. ‘I’d like to go, Father. If it’s the money, Sollitt said—’

  ‘It is not the money,’ his father roared. ‘And don’t let Sollitt imply that it is.’

  ‘He didn’t.’ Jamie tried to be patient. ‘But there’s a possibility that I could win an exhibition—’

  ‘I’m not interested in what you could or could not win, your place is here running this estate with your brother.’