The Downstairs Maid

by Rosie Clarke

  ‘How lovely they are,’ Emily said. ‘Can I touch them?’

  ‘Yes, they’re old enough now. You have to be careful at the start or the mother might eat them, but she’s over that stage now. These are five weeks old now and will soon be ready to leave home.’

  It was on the tip of Emily’s tongue to say that she would love one, but she didn’t, because she knew what Ma would say. Even if Emily could afford to buy one, she couldn’t afford to keep it. Puppies were sweet but they grew into big dogs and would need a lot of food. They didn’t have enough scraps to feed a dog like this, so despite falling in love with one of the pups that had a white patch over its eye, she kept her feelings to herself. Ma had been easier to live with of late and Emily didn’t want to risk more quarrels.

  She contented herself with stroking the puppies and added them to the list of things she was going to have one day.

  Emily’s imaginary list grew all the time. One day she was going to find herself a job that paid good wages, and then she would be independent and could buy all the things she wanted. She would be someone and the posh girls at the manor wouldn’t be able to look down their noses at her any more.

  When her father came back looking very pleased with himself, Emily was ready to leave. Mrs Standen was friendly but Emily wasn’t used to sitting down in the mornings and she knew there was a pile of ironing waiting for her when she got home.

  She thanked Harry’s mother for her hospitality, and thanked him again for the perfume. He smiled and said he would be calling at the farm one day. Emily went out to the cart with her father. She saw it was piled high with old furniture, over which he’d pulled a tarpaulin tied down with ropes. Pa helped her up on the wagon. She tucked the blanket round herself and he let the horses go.

  ‘Did you buy anything nice?’

  ‘I bought a couple of gate-legged tables, which I’ll take to the shop tomorrow, a set of yew kitchen chairs and two sabre-legged mahogany elbow chairs. Also a couple of brass and iron bedsteads, an extending table and a couple of old wardrobes.’

  ‘You won’t be able to sell the wardrobes.’

  ‘No, but I’ll chop them up and use them for wood on the fire.’

  Emily nodded to herself. Pa was making more work for himself but he’d bought one or two nice things and she supposed he hadn’t liked to leave the rubbish, because that wouldn’t be fair.

  The afternoon was closing in around them, a light mist spreading over the fens as they wended their way back along the droves. The skies seemed to press down on them now, dark and menacing, cutting them off from the rest of the world, as if a wall of silence surrounded them. On the way to the farm they’d been able to see the dykes easily but now it was hard to distinguish anything. Emily was glad the horse walked at a steady plod, because one foot wrong and they could all go tumbling into the dyke, which was filled with icy water.

  She couldn’t help hearing Pa’s cough. It was surely getting worse. If she’d thought it would do any good, she would have begged him to go to the doctor again, but she knew he would only do what he wanted.

  When they reached the road leading back through Sutton village, Emily felt a sigh of relief. Not much longer now and they would be home. She thought longingly of her tea and the warmth of the kitchen. Her throat felt a bit sore and her nose was running. She wiped it on her coat sleeve, because she couldn’t get at her handkerchief.

  On days like this, she wished she need never go out on the wagon again, but she knew she had no choice. When Pa needed her she would go, whatever the weather.

  ‘You wait here,’ Pa said when they drew up outside the Golden Hen pub in Witchford one morning later that week. ‘I’m going inside to take a look at the stuff Josh asked me to clear, and if there’s anything I need a hand with I’ll let you know. As it’s so cold you can lead Spartan up and down if he gets restless.’

  Josh Bracknell was the landlord of the Golden Hen, and he had a daughter a little older than Emily. She’d seen him at the door, when she’d walked into the village occasionally, but she didn’t know his daughter. People said Josh was hot-tempered but Pa seemed to get on well with him.

  Emily took the reins in her hands. Spartan moved his feet and tossed his head a couple of times, then settled down as she gentled him. Emily sat on the driving box waiting. It wasn’t too bad at first but after a while it began to get very cold and she hugged the blanket round her. She was just wondering if she should walk the horse when a girl came out of the pub with a glass in her hand.

  ‘My father said to bring you this,’ she said. ‘Can I get up and sit with you?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m Emily.’

  ‘I know – I’m Carla. It must be interesting going out with your father all the time. I get so bored stuck in the house or the pub.’

  ‘It gets a bit cold in the winter.’

  Carla nodded. Emily sipped her drink. Carla was a friendly girl and very pretty with dark hair and eyes and a lovely smile. Emily wasn’t certain but she thought she’d seen her talking to her uncle Derek when she passed the pub with Pa a few days previously.

  ‘Have you got a feller?’ Carla asked.

  Emily thought about Harry, but shook her head, and said, ‘I’ve got a friend. He’s nice but I wouldn’t call him my feller. His name is Christopher and he works in my father’s shop.’

  ‘I’ve got a lover,’ Carla said and her bold dark eyes were alight with mischief. ‘My father would kill me if he knew – but I’m in love and I don’t care. I’m going to get married soon.’ She touched her stomach, a dreamy look in her eyes. ‘You won’t say anything?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Emily wasn’t sure what Carla meant by a lover. And why had she touched her stomach that way? Did she mean she did things no decent girl ever did unless she was wed? Emily thought of her mother and the baby brother she suspected wasn’t Pa’s; Ma had only got wed because a baby was on the way. She felt confused and uncomfortable. Emily’s cheeks burned and she couldn’t look at the girl. Carla couldn’t be more than a few months older than Emily. She felt embarrassed by the girl’s confidence and thought she must have heard her wrong or was imagining more than was meant.

  She was relieved when her father came out with Carla’s father. They were carrying an exquisite little seat – or sofa. Emily wasn’t sure what to call it because there were three seats back to back, which made a circle. As they loaded it on the back of the cart and then went back for more, Carla jumped down and ran into the pub, taking Emily’s empty glass with her.

  Pa came out twice more with a couple of single chairs and a round table with a pedestal and three pad feet. The table was dark mahogany and she knew it was a wine table, because Pa had bought them before, but most were not as nice as this one.

  He shook hands with Josh and climbed up onto the wagon next to Emily, taking the reins from her. As they drew away from the side of the road, he turned to her with a look of satisfaction.

  ‘That’s a Victorian love seat that is,’ he told her, jerking his head towards the attractive seat. ‘It needs covering but then it will be pretty and worth a few bob. Might be out of fashion now, Em, but one day people will want them again.’

  ‘Yes, I expect so,’ she said, looking at him fondly.

  Pa might have his moods and she got cold waiting around for him sometimes, but she loved being with him and she would miss him if things had to change.

  She wouldn’t want to be Carla and she was glad she didn’t have a lover. She thought the girl was silly to boast about it and wondered if it were true.

  For a brief moment she recalled seeing her talking to Derek as she and Pa drove by the pub, then she dismissed the thought. Derek couldn’t be her lover, could he? No, Carla had too much sense to get involved with a man like that – hadn’t she?

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  Pa’s jest brought Emily’s attention back to him. What did it matter what Carla Bracknell got up to? Suddenly she didn’t care that it was cold and her toes felt frozen. T
hey would soon be home and the kitchen would be warm. Emily smiled to herself; she was content as she was for the moment.

  Chapter 8

  Amy Barton glanced at herself in her elegant dressing mirror. It had been a Christmas gift from her mother and was set in a silver frame with trails of vine leaves and flowers embossed on the frame in art nouveau style, and bought from Asprey of London. Amy had been particularly delighted with it, because she did like nice things. Of course Grandmama had some good things, but so much of the furniture was old-fashioned. Amy longed for the modern world with all its innovations. Here at Priorsfield, convention and the tradition of years trapped her. Grandmama still clung to her carriage and the horses needed to draw it, though her father had spoken of purchasing an automobile when he could afford it. Of course Jonathan already had a car, which he’d purchased with money left him by his paternal grandfather.

  Amy made a sound of frustration. If only her father had not lost most of his money. Perhaps then she would have had the Season she craved, which she felt sure would have resulted in a good marriage for her. She was quite determined to marry into money, because she disliked the idea of being poor. It was bad enough having to watch what she spent on clothes and to live in this mausoleum of a house – but to be stuck in a marriage without sufficient money would be unbearable.

  If Grandmama were not so mean she would have paid for Amy to have a London Season, but she refused to give Mama the money they needed. Sighing, Amy realised that her best chance of making the kind of marriage she wanted was to persuade Sir Arthur Jones to propose to her. He had seemed taken with her at Christmas and he’d called on them quite a few times since, but as yet he had shown no signs of wanting to marry her.

  Somehow, she had to make him speak, because she had settled on it in her mind that he would do. She wasn’t in love with him, of course, but she liked him and she enjoyed his company. Besides, he was very rich. He’d floated the emerald mine shares on the Stock Exchange and Lord Barton said they had sold well, bringing Arthur a sizeable fortune on top of what he already had. Amy knew that stuck here at the manor, she wasn’t likely to meet many men who could give her the lifestyle she wanted.

  It was so unfair. She ought to have had her chance to shine in society, to have men admire her and flirt with her. Amy longed for excitement, the thrill of being courted by someone dashing and handsome … someone who would make her go weak at the knees. Arthur didn’t make her feel like that, though she’d quite enjoyed it when he’d kissed her cheek – but she wished he’d been more passionate. She wanted a man who would sweep her off her feet and carry her away on a tide of passion.

  She wanted altogether too much, Amy admitted and laughed, as she fastened pearl drops to her ears and sprayed on a little French perfume. She would just have to forgo the passion, at least until she’d been married a while and could take a lover without getting caught.

  Arthur was exactly what she needed as a husband and he would just have to do.

  Lizzie was feeling lonely. Nicolas was back at Eton, Jonathan was out on the estate somewhere and Amy had gone for a ride in Sir Arthur’s automobile. It was a De Dion, painted green with shiny wheels and a wooden steering wheel. Lizzie wished she might have gone with them, but Amy hadn’t even considered asking her if she would like to go. Amy had been seeing Sir Arthur regularly since Christmas. He called at the house at least twice or three times a week and he’d taken Amy to parties and dances.

  Lizzie was afraid he was in love with her. She’d seen the look in his eyes when he saw Amy enter a room and she knew her own feelings for him were doomed to disappointment. It would be silly of her to sulk or cry over it, because Sir Arthur had never looked her way. It wasn’t as if Amy had stolen her beau. He hardly knew that Lizzie was alive.

  ‘Lizzie dearest, come here a moment, will you?’

  She turned as her grandmother called to her, going obediently to her side. Granny was leaning heavily on her stick. Dressed in a dark grey gown with a high neck finished with a lace collar and a rather splendid cameo brooch at the throat, she looked like the Victorian matriarch she was. Lady Prior made few concessions to the modern era, her drawing-room a hotchpotch of styles ranging from good Chippendale chairs to heavy, over-stuffed sofas bought when she was a bride. The rooms she used were crammed with knickknacks she’d collected, because although she added something every time she was given a gift, however insignificant, she never put anything aside. Priceless silver and objets d’art mingled with cheap china fairings her grandchildren had given her and an assortment of photographs in frames. She was a lady of strict morals and had a highly developed sense of her place in the world. Lizzie suspected that her grandmother suffered a lot of pain with her rheumatism, but she never complained, because one didn’t if one had ‘backbone’.

  ‘I would like you to run a little errand for me, Lizzie,’ Granny said. ‘Would you mind having the pony and trap put to and taking a note to Reverend Potter for me?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Lizzie felt rather pleased. She’d been bored on her own and it would make a change. ‘There’s no need for me to take the trap, I can walk into Witchford. It is a lovely day and I like to walk.’

  ‘Very well, if you prefer. It’s bright and dry even if cold. Wrap up warm and take this note to him. It’s about the village bazaar. I have some things for him to sell for his latest good cause, but he must come here and sort through them. Tomorrow morning will do very well.’

  ‘Yes, Granny.’ Lizzie wondered if her grandmother knew how autocratic she sounded. She didn’t consider that it might not suit the vicar to come the next morning. In that she was a bit like Amy, though neither of them would admit it. They didn’t get on too well.

  She accepted the small envelope, which smelled of Granny’s lavender water, then went through to the gun room and selected some stout boots and a long, oversized duster-coat to put on over her clothes. She wound wool scarves about her neck and pushed an old hat of Nicolas’s down hard on her head. Amy would never go out looking like that but Lizzie didn’t care. She would be warm and no one would bother to look at her, and that suited her.

  Leaving the house, she walked through the front gardens, by way of the long gravel drive. Ancient trees grew to either side of the drive, their branches sweeping down to touch the earth in places. Many of them were specimen trees and had been planted by her great grandfather. There were rose beds set into the lawns, alive with colour in the summer but in winter they looked bedraggled, the stems black and withered. Soon the gardeners would cut them down to get fresh growth but not before the frosts had finished.

  The wind was chilly and the tip of Lizzie’s nose was pink by the time she reached the lane that led into the village. The old Rectory was close to the church and the vicar’s garden was small but always neat. His roses had been pruned in the winter and looked like little twigs, surrounded by a mulch of leaves that had decayed into the earth. She wondered if that was why he usually won the prize for the best roses at the village fete, annoying Grandmama every time when she had to take second place.

  Lizzie was welcomed inside the Rectory and given a hot drink and one of Mrs Potter’s cinnamon buns. The vicar came hurrying in as she was eating it, full of apologies for keeping her waiting. He’d been giving lessons to the local children and been delayed because the curate had a sore throat and couldn’t take over from him.

  ‘I’m sure Peter will be better tomorrow, and if not Mrs Potter will sit in for me,’ he said. ‘Tell dear Lady Prior that I shall be delighted to call on her at eleven tomorrow, Miss Lizzie.’

  Lizzie thanked him and his wife for the cocoa and bun. She pulled on the old coat again, and left the Rectory. If anything, it was even colder now, but she enjoyed the chance of some fresh air and exercise, because it was seldom that she got the chance to walk this far. It was as she was walking back through the lane, after leaving the village, that she saw the man coming towards her. He was, she supposed, in his early thirties, a tall, strong-looking man with b
lack hair and dark eyes. His clothes proclaimed him a farmer, for he wore long boots similar to those Nicolas wore for riding but with straps at the side and heavy soles. His trousers were moleskin and fitted tightly to his thighs and he wore a tweed coat that fitted into the waist with a little belt at the back, the elbows patched with leather. He was wearing a hat but though he put a finger to it he didn’t remove it as most gentlemen did – but, of course, as Amy would say, he wasn’t a gentleman in the strict sense of the word.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Barton,’ he said and grinned at her.

  Lizzie hesitated, because she normally didn’t speak to men she didn’t know, but the admiring look in his eyes made her forget her Mama’s warning.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Derek,’ he said. ‘My name’s Derek. I farm over Chatteris way – been visiting my sister.’

  ‘How nice for her,’ Lizzie said politely. She was tempted to linger but then she saw Jonathan’s automobile coming towards her from the direction of the village. He slowed down, opened his door and told her to get in. ‘Goodbye …’

  Jonathan looked at her as she slid into the seat next to him. ‘What on earth did you think you were doing, Lizzie? Talking to a man like that …’

  ‘He spoke to me and I said good morning, that’s all,’ Lizzie protested. ‘I wasn’t doing any harm, Jon.’

  ‘You might not have been but he was eyeing you up and down.’ Jonathan frowned. ‘What on earth are you dressed like that for?’

  ‘I thought it would keep me warm. I’ve been on an errand for Granny to the vicar.’

  ‘Well, be careful Mama doesn’t see you like that – and take my advice, Lizzie. Stay away from men of that kind. I don’t know him by name but I’ve seen him before. He isn’t a gentleman and I don’t want him hanging around my sister.’