by Val Wood
‘I don’t know,’ the boy admitted. ‘Plans have gone awry.’ He smiled at Ellen as she brought out the cake. ‘Hello.’
‘This is Ellen,’ Cook said. ‘She’s new since you were last at home.’
She dipped her knee and he nodded; shyly, she thought, although he seemed to be at ease with Cook and Flo. It’s cos he’s used to them, I expect. She was pleased when he said the cake was delicious and Cook told him she’d made it. She saw Flo’s expression change to that of a sour prune; she’s jealous, Ellen thought, feeling triumphant.
Chapter Two
The day of the wedding was cloudless and sunny and Ellen was pleased to be out of the heat of the kitchen serving glasses of champagne or trays of hors d’oeuvres to the guests who milled about on the lawn before going into the marquee for the wedding breakfast. It was thrilling to see the bride, her attendants and Mrs Hart in their beautiful gowns of silks and fine muslins in varying shades of ivory and cream, with nipped-in waists and puffed long sleeves narrowing at the wrist; the bride wore flowers in her hair and the young attendants wore undergowns of rose and pale blue, and as they flitted about on the lawn Ellen was put in mind of colourful butterflies and gave a small wishful sigh.
Christopher Hart came across to her and took a glass of champagne from her tray. ‘I’m not really supposed to drink,’ he confessed. ‘So don’t tell on me, will you?’
‘Oh, no, of course I won’t, sir.’ She gave him a dimpled smile and thought how handsome he looked in his grey tailcoat and black trousers and carrying a top hat. ‘It’ll be our secret.’
His eyebrows rose at that and she thought he seemed amused. He didn’t seem to be offended by her flippancy and she wondered if he was ever tired of being cautious or prudent when speaking to servants and being answered in a submissive manner. He was still only a boy, after all.
He went back to school after the wedding and wouldn’t return home until the summer holidays, and for most of that time he was occupied with his parents. Mrs Marshall told her that after going to university he was destined to run the estate with his father.
‘Nice to have your future mapped out for you,’ Flo niggled. ‘No worries about finding a job.’
‘But what if he’d like to do something else?’ Ellen said. ‘Does he have a choice?’
Mrs Marshall scratched her head. ‘No, I don’t suppose he does.’
Much to Flo’s annoyance Mrs Whitton had been impressed by Ellen’s manner towards the wedding guests, and she was promoted to upstairs maid on Mrs Marshall’s recommendation. She was given two new uniforms, one for morning and one for the afternoon. Flo grumbled that she had been there for much longer than Ellen and was still stuck in the kitchen.
‘Well, much as I don’t want to lose her,’ Cook answered briskly, ‘she’s got potential to improve herself. I can’t say ’same for you, my girl, so get on with what you’re doing and be quick about it.’
Ellen was moved to a room in the attic. It was colder than the kitchen and she shared with two of the other maids; Mrs Marshall took on another kitchen maid to help Flo, which meant that Flo had someone working beneath her again.
The work upstairs meant getting up very early to clean out the fire grates before the family came down, sweeping, dusting and changing the bed linen, and it also meant that when Christopher came home in the holidays Ellen rarely saw him, only occasionally coming across him whilst carrying out upstairs duties. It was about a year later, on a day when she had gone outside to take a breath of air, that he crossed the yard on his way to the stable block and saw her.
‘Hello,’ he greeted her. ‘I haven’t seen you for a while.’
‘I’m still here,’ she said, and then added, daringly, ‘but you do know that we’re supposed to be invisible?’
He looked taken aback and she thought that her tongue might have got the better of her. She looked down and meekly murmured, ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Is that what you’re told? To be invisible?’ His voice was low, as if he didn’t want to be overheard.
She nodded. ‘Yes. That’s what I was told when I first came to work here.’
‘How ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Those are not my views.’ He looked at her steadily for a moment and then asked, ‘Would you like to come and look at my new horse? It’s a birthday present.’
‘Oh, is it your birthday, sir?’ She sometimes missed out on the kitchen gossip. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘Next week. I’ll be sixteen. I hope Cook is making me a cake?’
‘I’m sure she will be.’ And in her head she began to plan and scheme of a way to persuade Cook to let her make a cake for Master Christopher.
He led the way to the stable block, where a light-coloured bay was looking out of the open top of a loose box door. Christopher told Ellen he was calling her Sorrel because of her colour. ‘I wanted a stallion, but Father said not yet. I can have one when I reach eighteen.’
Gingerly Ellen stroked the mare’s long nose and said she was a fine animal, although in truth she wasn’t very fond of horses. Nathaniel Tuke was replenishing the straw bedding in the other boxes and his eyes widened when he saw Ellen accompanying Master Christopher, but then his expression changed to an exaggerated subservience as he bent his head and touched his cap.
Christopher cleared his throat, and Ellen wondered if he had realized that by bringing her to the stables he had crossed the line between servant and master. He’s embarrassed by ’division between us, she thought. It isn’t something he’s happy about.
‘I’ve, erm, brought Ellen to see my latest acquisition,’ he said to Tuke, adding, ‘What do you think? Isn’t she a beauty?’
Tuke glanced at Ellen from beneath his cap. ‘Certainly is, sir, best mount I’ve seen in a long time.’ He slid back the bolt and opened the stall door to let Ellen see the animal. ‘Treat her right and she’ll serve you well.’
‘I’m sorry, I must go,’ Ellen said hurriedly. ‘They’ll be wondering where I am. Thank you for showing her to me, Master Christopher,’ she said, for Tuke’s benefit. ‘It was very kind of you.’
Behind Christopher’s shoulder she saw Tuke smirk. He gave her a wink and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ Christopher said. ‘I wanted to show her off. Saddle her up, will you, Tuke, and I’ll take her out.’
Tuke tipped his cap again. ‘My pleasure, sir,’ he said. ‘I reckon she’ll ride well.’
Ellen hurried back to the house. Her cheeks were flushed with anger. She’d understood Tuke’s snide remarks even if Christopher hadn’t. He’s been sheltered, she thought. Don’t young men of his class banter about females in ’way such as Tuke do? Surely at school? Maybe they do, but in a different manner and not in front of women.
Mrs Marshall beckoned to her to hurry when she went back into the kitchen. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she admonished. ‘Mrs Whitton has been looking for you. Mistress is expecting visitors this morning and you need to set a tray of tea and biscuits for ’em. Get a clean tray cloth and use ’best but one silverware and ’second best china. Come on. They’ll be here any minute.’
‘Yes, Cook, sorry. I was held up. I’ll explain later,’ she murmured, not wanting Flo to hear where she stood by the range stirring soup. ‘And I need to ask you something.’
When they were alone, she said, ‘Master Christopher asked me to look at his new mare. I could hardly refuse, could I?’ she added, as if she hadn’t really wanted to go. ‘Especially as he said it was a birthday present. I thought that he must be quite lonely, having to ask a servant to share his pleasure. And what I thought, Mrs Marshall, was that wouldn’t it be nice if I made him something for his birthday, which is next week, by the way, and ’onny thing I could think of was that I could mebbe mek him a cake, you know, like I did before.’
Mrs Marshall gazed at her and said sharply, ‘Yes, I know it’s next week. I allus mek him a cake, have done since he was a two-year-old.’ She thought for a moment, then said, ‘But aye, you co
uld do. One for him to eat down here wi’ us, and I’ll mek him another for upstairs that he can share wi’ his parents. But don’t go thinking he’s lonely, for I’m sure he’s not. He’s got plenty of friends from round about and from school, and some of ’em’ll be coming to his party next week.’
She contemplated for a second and then went on, ‘And what you think is loneliness is more likely shyness. He’s a quiet sort o’ young man, allus was, even when he was just a bairn, not one for a lot o’ noise and excitement, but rather retiring and serious. And,’ she added in a precautionary manner, ‘don’t go thinking you can mek a friend of him.’ She shook her head. ‘Cos you can’t.’
Chapter Three
Ellen wasn’t convinced. Why? she argued to herself. Why can’t I? She was aware of the huge differences between herself and Mrs Hart, who didn’t even notice her if she passed her in the hall, when, as she had been taught, Ellen stood stock still until she had gone by. If she was serving tea to Mrs Hart or her guests, none saw or spoke to her unless it was to ask for more hot water. She would curtsey and disappear, reappear with the hot water, curtsey again and back out of the room.
But Christopher was different. In the house he didn’t speak to her if his parents were there, but he always smiled to acknowledge her presence, which she found not only comforting but also very agreeable, as if she were special.
During the week of his birthday she agreed with Cook that she would make the cake late one evening when everyone bar Daisy the new kitchen maid had gone to bed, and that Daisy could help her. She bade the girl bring out the mixing bowl, the wooden spoons, the flour, butter, eggs, sugar and chocolate: she was going to make Master Christopher a chocolate cake.
She put on Cook’s large apron, stirred and then beat the flour, sugar and butter, whisked the eggs and melted the chocolate. Daisy greased and lined the cake tin, and the mixture was gently poured in. No matter how many cakes I make in my life, Ellen thought, I can say that this will be the best one ever. She carefully placed it in the oven, and whilst Daisy washed the bowls and utensils she sat down and waited, feeling that she was queen of her domain. This must be how Mrs Marshall feels when she has cooked for upstairs, she thought, knowing that no one could have done it better.
When Daisy had finished and made the kitchen tidy, Ellen told her that she could go to bed. The girl put her mattress at the other side of the kitchen, pulled her blanket over her and was instantly asleep whilst Ellen patiently waited until she judged that the cake was done.
It rose, just as the other one had, the aroma was delicious and she felt with immense satisfaction that she was a true cake maker. She carefully transferred it on to a rack and left it to cool, and then she took it into the larder, placed it on a stone shelf and covered it with a mesh dome. That done, she found a pencil and a piece of paper, wrote Do not eat in large letters and placed it by the cake.
It was late, after eleven o’clock, and she had to be up, washed and dressed by six, but she sighed happily. It was the first time she had done something for someone else without prompting and only because she wanted to, and she was astonished by the wonderful sensation it gave her. But I’ll never do it for anyone else, she thought. Not ever. Only for Christopher.
The next day Mrs Marshall, declaring it excellent, wanted to cover it with chocolate icing, but Ellen said no, she wanted to keep it simple and only sprinkle a dusting of chocolate over the top. That evening, the eve of his birthday, Christopher came down to the kitchen an hour before supper.
‘Can you wait awhile, Master Christopher?’ Cook asked him. ‘There’s a surprise for you, but we must wait for Ellen. She’s helping Mr Stephens with ’table setting.’
‘I know. I saw them. We have friends coming for supper tonight and then a party tomorrow.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t really like parties, Cook. When I’m running this house I don’t think I’ll have any.’
‘Oh?’ Mrs Marshall put her hands on her ample hips. ‘And then what will we all do here in ’kitchen? Just twiddle our thumbs? And what if you have a wife who likes to entertain, Master Christopher?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said glumly. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Well, I’ll have to choose someone who doesn’t like them either.’
Mrs Marshall raised a quizzical brow. Nobody’s ever satisfied with what they’ve got, she thought. You’d think that a young man with everything he could ask for would be happy with his lot, but he’s not. She wanted to pat his head, but it wasn’t her place to be too familiar.
When Ellen came back downstairs, Cook had put out a cake stand with a pretty lace doily, set out cups and saucers for three people and told Daisy to make a pot of tea. Ellen took the stand into the larder, arranged the cake on the doily and bore it proudly into the kitchen.
‘Happy birthday for tomorrow, Master Christopher,’ she said, and Cook and Daisy joined in whilst Flo looked on with her mouth turned down and didn’t say a word.
‘How very kind,’ Christopher said, when Cook told him that Ellen had made the cake. Ellen cut a slice and handed it to him on a plate. He took a bite, pronounced it delicious, and hoped they would join him and have a slice.
Cook nodded and said they would, and she and Ellen sat with him at the kitchen table whilst Daisy poured the tea.
‘Flo, Daisy, you must try it too,’ he said, and although Daisy eagerly stepped forward Flo said, ‘Thank you, sir, but I won’t if you don’t mind. I don’t care for chocolate cake.’
Ellen gave a little smile. Sour grapes. She’d seen Flo eating chocolate cake many times, and, she thought, I’ll be sure to remind her she doesn’t like it when Cook next makes one.
When Christopher got up to leave, Ellen wrapped the remains of the cake in greaseproof paper and put it in a tin for him to take upstairs. He thanked her and bent to kiss her cheek and then did the same to Cook. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘How splendid you all are.’
Ellen stood and stared after him. He’d kissed her cheek. Oh, she breathed, if only I could have kissed him back.
‘Mistress’s bell’s ringing, in case you can’t hear it,’ Flo said spitefully. ‘Don’t forget who you are.’
Chapter Four
By nature Christopher was a quiet, polite and rather shy young man, adored and cosseted by his older sisters since he was a baby, yet rather than growing up clamorous and demanding he looked to the women in his life for reassurance and advice. Except for his mother. Although triumphant that she had finally produced an heir, as was expected of her, she had handed over this latecoming infant to her daughters and the nanny; as he grew up she was never able to give him an opinion on anything important to him, or for that matter any love or comfort either. She neither understood nor was interested in children, especially boys.
Since the marriage of his last sister, as the only minor still at home he had felt isolated, neither a fully fledged grown-up nor a child. His mother often looked at him as if she didn’t really know who he was, and his father on their perambulations round the estate or tenanted farms would point at a newly born calf or a pig in litter and say gruffly, ‘When you’re older, my boy, I’ll teach you about what’s what,’ and bark with forced laughter.
Christopher would feel his cheeks redden and lower his head in embarrassment, thinking, if he means procreation then I already know about it. Has Father forgotten that I go to school? The other boys have already told me all I need to know, and some things that I’d rather not have known.
His trips down to the kitchen were essentially because he was lonely and in need of company. He knew some of the maids were rather shy of him, but Cook was warm and sympathetic and treated him like a normal human being, unlike the menservants. The butler was always so correct, whilst his father’s valet was almost too subservient and the footmen rarely spoke to him. Most of the outside men, as he thought of them, didn’t seem to notice him, and the rest, like the horse lad Tuke, were ingratiatingly servile.
I suppose, he thought, they think that I’ll remember them favourably when I am mas
ter here, but that won’t be for many years, as my father is hale and hearty. And what’s more I won’t, because I hate their fawning obsequious manners and there is nothing about their conduct that would make me want to employ them.
He was, without realizing it, setting parameters for what he would do when the time came. That the servants were afraid of his parents he knew, for even those who were instrumental to their well-being, their means of livelihood and their future were utterly dependent on them. I shall be just, he decided with youthful passion, and treat my servants kindly.
And it was as he was thinking of these things that his thoughts turned to the young maid who had made him a birthday cake. She was very pretty and rather shy, he thought, just as he was, though not so shy that she hadn’t thought to bake him a cake, and she had done it herself. Mrs Marshall had said so. ‘Ellen wanted to bake you a cake,’ she said. Ellen, that was her name. She started in the kitchen and is now an upstairs maid, which means that I won’t see her so often, which is a pity, as I’d like to; we are a similar age, I think.
Does she get time off, he wondered; if she does I could perhaps talk to her. I wouldn’t be as tongue-tied with her as I am with young ladies. He gave a silent groan as he thought of the forthcoming tea party. His mother would have invited her friends and they would bring their daughters, who would be as speechless and inarticulate as he was.
It was only a small gathering, as sixteen wasn’t considered to be a significant age, but nevertheless he was expected to exchange small talk with two young ladies and three boys, all considerably younger than himself, who were even more reluctant to be in attendance than he was. After tea he offered to take them to the stables and show them his new horse. Two of the boys and one girl agreed; Jane, the other girl, was urged by her mother to go with them but steadfastly refused, saying she wasn’t interested in horses. Christopher grinned at her show of spirit and was rewarded by a returned smile.
