by Erica Brown
Blanche made a big thing of closing her sea chest. ‘I don’t think so.’ The truth was, she’d never used one and wasn’t too sure what it looked like.
Edith failed to notice her unease. ‘Haven’t you looked? If you ain’t, I can go and get one, but there must be one ’ere somewhere. Here it is,’ she said, retrieving a tin box from the narrow mantelpiece.
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll get this lit in no time,’ Edith said, her large rump hiding the spluttering spark from Blanche’s view.
Feeling a little stupid, Blanche thought some sort of explanation was in order. The truth was the only one she had to offer. ‘I’m no good at lighting fires. I’ve never had to do it.’
‘Lucky you! What sort of ’ouse did you come from then?’
‘We had servants,’ said Blanche.
Still on her knees, Edith twisted round. ‘Now we ain’t gonna ’ave tall stories, are we? We gets enough of them from Captain Tom.’ Faced with Edith’s scepticism, Blanche counselled herself to be careful in what she said. ‘My uncle and my aunt acted as servants. They did lots of things. And then there was the heat and my mother was ill…’
‘Oh, the poor woman!’ Edith assumed that Viola had been an invalid and the relatives had rallied round. The bright smile returned and she slapped her hips.
‘Fancy not being able to light a fire,’ she said.
Fingers of flame began licking over the coal. ‘There!’ Edith pronounced and got to her feet, just as Blanche was examining herself in the mirror, trying to see whether she looked out of place in the dress she’d chosen to wear. Once her hair was brushed, she’d look quite respectable. Suddenly she felt Edith’s eyes on her.
‘Is something wrong?’
Edith hesitated and bit her lower lip. ‘Well. A few things…’
‘Go on.’
‘I don’t want you to think I’m being rude, but… it’s your clothes.’
‘What’s the matter with my clothes?’
Edith blushed and slammed her eyes. ‘You forgot your pantalets. You’re not wearing any.’
Blanche stared at her uncomprehending. ‘Pantalets?’
Edith grinned, turned pink, lifted her gathered skirt, overcome by embarrassment, dropped it, and then lifted it again. ‘Like these. I’d catch me death without ’em. Just imagine, one gust of wind blowing up off the river, me skirt up over me head, and me ass… ets on full view!’
Blanche could imagine and, for what seemed the first time since her arrival she smiled, then burst out laughing.
Edith cleared her throat and nodded to where the dress lay flat across Blanche’s stomach and clung to her limbs. ‘There’s paintings in the house with women dressed like that, but they don’t wear such dresses now. Can see why too. It’s showing all you got. Enough to give the Missus apoplexy! As for the men… well! I mean, look at that neckline, lean forward and one of your boobies is likely to escape.’
Blanche looked at Edith’s dress, then at her own. ‘I’ll have to do something. I can’t possibly be seen looking like this.’
Using both hands to lift the heavy lid, she re-opened her sea chest, and looked at the pinks, mauves, pale lemons and greens. ‘I left Barbados feeling like a queen, arid I come here feeling like…’ She couldn’t think of the right word, opposite to queen.
‘They don’t look very warm,’ observed Edith, her rough fingers running over the soft fabrics. ‘And you do know them that’s way above stairs – nurses, governesses and suchlike – have got to provide their own frocks. Has to be modest, mind you. Course,’ she said, smoothing her hands down over the bulging bodice of her grey, full-skirted dress, ‘different for us ordinary servants. Not likely to ’ave a decent frock hanging in a cupboard.’ She burst out laughing. ‘Not likely to ’ave a cupboard either, come to that.’
Blanche eyed the mass of lightweight muslins, silks and lace. She sighed resignedly. ‘The green wool and the grey-and-black striped are passable if I wear a lace dress or a muslin underneath and an apron on top. It’s not ideal, but will do for now, at least until I can get them altered. But for now, I’ll have to wear two dresses at a time.’
‘Aprons are provided. I’ve already made them up for you. Three of white linen and one of rubber.’ On seeing Blanche’s perplexed expression, she went on, ‘For those little wet moments when the new baby arrives.’
‘I just need dresses,’ moaned Blanche.
Edith bubbled. ‘I’m quite a turn with a needle. Sewed all me own aprons, and darned these knickers meself,’ she added, exposing her pantalets for further admiration, just in case Blanche hadn’t seen enough of them the first time. ‘I’ll make you some underwear too. Don’t know how women in this country ever managed without them.’
Blanche stripped off the blue dress, put on the fine muslin she used to wear to her mother’s soirées, then put the linen dress on top of that.
‘You need an apron to nip in yer waistline and hide all that naked bosom.’ She spun on her heel, dragged open a drawer and got out a broad-bibbed apron. Once Blanche had tied the four-inch wide apron strings, Edith stood back to observe her handiwork. She looked pleased, until her eyes rested on Blanche’s bosom. ‘Too much of yer boobies showing.’ Edith poked at the bare bits of Blanche’s breasts. ‘Now what are we going to do about them?’
‘Well, I ain’t sending them back,’ said Blanche, her hands on her hips. ‘Find me a kerchief like the one you’re wearing.’
‘Better than that, ’ave this one,’ Edith returned, and tucked it into the bib of the apron. ‘Can’t be offended at that!’ she exclaimed, slapping her hands together as if dusting them with flour.
‘I’m almost respectable,’ said Blanche. ‘Almost!’ She fussed with her hair, trying to get the mass of dark curls back into some sort of order. During the Atlantic crossing, the style had become less and less elaborate as time went on, the cluster of side curls becoming a tangle due to the salty air and the brisk winds. Fastening her hair into a bulky bun with pins was about all she had been able to do and she had promised herself she’d do better once she was on dry land again. But for now the bun would have to suffice.
At last it was tidy, and she examined the result.
Edith said, ‘Servants are expected to keep things plain and simple.’
‘I am,’ Blanche said.
‘Plain?’ exclaimed Edith. ‘Your skin’s the colour of caramel. Can see your eyes now. Funny colour, ain’t they? Strange ’aving grey eyes with your skin colour. That’s funny too,’ she added, deftly touching the dark mole that sat below Blanche’s right eye. ‘Is it real?’
‘Try picking it off and I’ll scream,’ said Blanche, brushing Edith’s hand away just in case she was tempted to try it.
Although tired, Blanche found the energy to get to her feet and started to put her things away. Edith offered to help, buzzing around, chattering like a parrot as she plucked mittens from among the dresses, popped them into a drawer along with lace-edged handkerchiefs, white silk stockings, ribbons, silk shawls and bags of scented lavender. She placed the jewellery box and the scent bottle on top of the chest of drawers.
Edith was just about to hang her parasol on to a hook, when Blanche pounced on it. ‘I’ll take that.’ She cuddled it to her breast.
Edith looked at it fondly. ‘Pretty, that. I had a parasol once. Me brother got it for me. Don’t know where he got it, but it was black with pictures woven in silk. Ever so pretty it was. In Bristol one day, and it was gone. Somebody pinched it from off me arm, they did. Can’t trust anyone these days, can ya?’
Edith spoke loudly, so it was hard to ignore what she was saying. Thoughts of Barbados and her mother drifted into Blanche’s mind. She said, ‘The last time I used this parasol was just before my mother died.’
‘Do you miss her a lot?’ asked Edith.
‘Very much.’
‘I miss my mum too,’ said Edith wistfully.
Edith went on to tell Blanche of the mining village she used to live in. �
�Deep Pit, Oldland Common,’ she said. ‘It was a deep mine all right, but not when the men got down there. Three foot ’igh it was. Rotten place. No wonder me dad and the men out there were so rotten. If you treat men like animals, they’re going to act like ’em, ain’t they?’
Blanche agreed.
‘But never mind,’ Edith went on. ‘Me dad got killed. Best thing that ever happened. Still down that mine so far as I know. Coal collapsed and fell in on top of ’im. Saved on the funeral expenses it did.’
It seemed odd to Blanche that Edith showed no sign of grief for either parent. ‘When did your mother go?’ she asked.
Edith’s lips slapped together as she folded a black, silver-edged shawl and stroked it before placing it in a drawer. ‘She went from Oldland Common just after me father died. Got a place in the Pithay, in the centre of the city, along with me brothers and a cousin. Ain’t nothing special, but it’s home. I’ll take you to see them some time,’ said Edith. ‘But let’s visit Cook first fer some grub while you get yerself acquainted with the household, the servants that is, you won’t be meeting the family, of course. The housekeeper will look you over, see if you suit, whether you wash behind yer ears, go to church on Sunday and know how to speak to yer betters like what I do. They’re all looking forward to meeting you. Funny, but we all thought you’d be the same colour as Duncan and David, the footmen.’
Blanche recalled the footman who’d opened the front door. He’d towered above her, intimidating, disdainful, and as different to her as it was likely to be.
* * *
Duncan was in a foul mood. He’d come back from his journey into Bristol, soaking wet and still seething from Josiah Benson’s treatment of him. The man owned an estate sandwiched between the village of Horfield and Almondsbury, yet did most of his business from Clifton Gentleman’s Club, which was where Duncan had gone with the message. In Duncan’s opinion, Josiah Benson was as far from being a gentleman as it was possible to be.
At the club, he’d been made to wait in the vestibule while a manservant had taken Horatia’s message in on a silver tray. Waiting outside was expected. After Duncan had waited a few minutes, he heard men laughing. They’d been drinking. Laughter following heavy drinking was different and more frequent than when men were sober.
Elegantly dressed in tight-fitting trousers and a silk-lined frock coat, Benson came out accompanied by two companions. All were smiling, smoking cigars and their faces were red as the port they’d likely been drinking.
Duncan had cringed and gritted his teeth as Benson looked him up and down. He’d guessed what was coming. Benson had said it all before, mostly after too much port.
Just as he’d expected, Benson turned to his companions. ‘So, what do you think? How much do you reckon he’d have fetched in the old days?’
The other men laughed. One of them, a white-whiskered man in a grey suit, had walked around him as if he were a prize steer. That tall? That handsome? Two hundred of any man’s money.’ Then he’d sneered, ‘Three hundred of a woman’s.’
They’d laughed. Benson had added, ‘There are two of these in the Strong household.’
The white-whiskered man raised his eyebrows. ‘Both serving Miss Horatia?’
Duncan had wanted to grab hold of the whiskers, drag the man forward and slam his forehead against his, hear it crack, see him slide unconscious, even dead, to the ground.
Benson threw the man a warning look. ‘Have a care, Claude Smythe. I intend making that lady my wife.’
The man apologized.
Benson headed for a desk close to the door, dipped a nib in the inkwell and scribbled on a piece of paper.
He lowered his voice as he said, ‘I want you to tell Trout to keep a closer eye on Captain Strong. I want to know who he meets and where he goes. Then take this note to your mistress.’
He pressed the note into Duncan’s hand. Duncan slipped it into the small leather pouch that hung from his belt.
Josiah Benson looked smug. Emmanuel had impressed on him it would be a good idea to have Tom followed. Logically, he thought it a waste of time, but Emmanuel had offered to split the costs so long as he didn’t tell Horatia he had a hand in things.
‘Let her think it’s all to do with this railway and steamship business,’ he’d said to Josiah, who’d almost dropped to his knees when Emmanuel slapped him heartily around the shoulders. ‘In no time at all, my dear boy, she’ll be yours. Mark my words.’
He’d half suspected that Emmanuel had ulterior motives, but dismissed them. All the man cared about was seeing his daughter well wed. It was understandable.
Duncan hated having to see Trout, who frequented one of the most stinking, quayside taverns in the city. He also hated being treated as if he were still a slave but, most of all, he hated hearing his mistress insulted. Duncan was extremely loyal to Miss Horatia, in fact, he loved her and fancied she felt the same, though nothing could ever be mentioned, of course. Both colour and class were against them, so he was content to desire from afar.
Horatia had snatched the note swiftly from the tray.
‘Go,’ she ordered as she ripped open the note.
Wounded by her sharpness, he headed below stairs. He couldn’t take his anger out on his mistress, so someone had to suffer.
There was no one in the servant’s hall when he entered. As usual, everyone was gathered in the warm kitchen around the cook’s big pine table, sipping their afternoon tea. All eyes turned expectantly in his direction, and their conversation ceased.
‘Have you seen the new nurse?’ Cook asked Duncan, a trickle of tea seeping from the corner of her mouth.
‘She’s very pretty,’ said one of the parlour maids, a dark-haired girl with hazel eyes called Kitty Ray.
‘Is that right?’ Cook eyed Duncan for confirmation.
‘Yes,’ he said in a clipped manner. ‘I suppose she is.’
Cook poured him tea and he dragged out a chair.
‘She’s going to look more than pretty beside Edith,’ laughed Kitty. ‘Under nurses don’t come much plainer than her.’
Everyone laughed, except Duncan. Tom’s treatment of him still smarted, and all on account of the new nurse.
Cups danced in saucers as he brought his fist down hard on the table. ‘This new nurse has airs and graces far above her station. I’ll not have it in this house.’
‘All nurses are like that,’ said Cook with an injured expression.
‘This one is more so,’ Duncan said, his eyes travelling slowly over everyone gathered around the table, his voice sliding like velvet over his vowels. ‘Her name is Blanche Bianca, but the name Mrs Brown would be more convenient for the master and mistress to remember, and for us too. Is that clear?’
Parlour maids, kitchen maids, valet, butler and footmen, all exchanged glances. Duncan’s presence was as big as his body. He eyed each of them in an imperious way that left them in no doubt that the new nurse would indeed be called Mrs Brown.
‘And don’t make her too welcome,’ he added. ‘She’s not likely to be staying any longer than her predecessors.’
Chapter Thirteen
The warm air and delicious smells of baked bread, caramel pudding and a juicy haunch of venison on a Dutch spit, met Blanche and Edith as they entered the kitchen.
Conversation ceased as hostile eyes turned in her direction.
‘This is Blanche,’ trilled Edith. ‘She’s from Barbados.’
No one said a word. Then Cook sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. ‘Well, that ain’t what I ’eard. I ’eard ’er name’s Mrs Brown.’
‘Her name is Mrs Brown,’ said Duncan and sipped his tea. Without his wig, his hair was cropped, like the backside of a sheep just after shearing.
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Cook, fetching Blanche a sidelong look of outright contempt. ‘She looks brown so the name suits.’
Although still tired, their animosity revived her spirits.
‘My name is Blanche Bianca, not Brown.’
A few faces turned in her direction. The more placid stared down at the table, doing their best to appear dumb, blind and deaf.
Blanche glared at Duncan. ‘And if I am brown enough to be called Brown, why aren’t you called Black instead of Duncan?’
No one said a thing, though Edith tried. ‘Come on, you lot! You told me earlier that you wanted to meet her. What’s the matter with you all?’
Blanche felt like cheering. Edith was gutsy, quite capable of standing up to anyone.
The triumphal moment was short-lived. Duncan turned accusing eyes on Edith. ‘How is the dog trade going, Edith? Lucrative still, no doubt. It would be very bad for Lady Verity to find out about it.’
Edith suddenly seemed smaller.
‘To save you waiting to eat with the children, you can eat here,’ said Cook to Edith, setting a white dish on to the table.
Blanche heard her stomach rumble. She’d had nothing to eat save the bread and cheese since the ship had docked around eight-thirty that morning.
Hungry too, Edith started to make her way to her place on the bench. ‘What about—?’
Cook pressed a large meaty hand on to Edith’s shoulder. ‘Never mind Brown. I’ll deal with her.’
‘Bianca!’ Blanche snapped. ‘Blanche Bianca. I’m not Brown.’
Cook’s eyes were pale as frogspawn. ‘Well, you ain’t none too white, are you?’ A controlled snigger ran around the table, as she ladled the good-smelling broth into a white china bowl. ‘You can have yours ’ere,’ she said, dumping the bowl down hard on to the end of a long pine side table. Some of the broth slopped on to the surface, which was stained with the blood of six pheasants, whose innards and dissected heads were no more than two feet from her food. ‘Here’s yer spoon.’
