‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’ I replied. I was right in my judgement; I travelled everywhere with her.
Although 25 Charles Street was only a small house, with two in the kitchen, two parlourmaids, two housemaids, myself, a nanny and a nursemaid, there was also the Manor House at Cranborne in Dorset, a beautiful country house. We were frequent visitors to the famous Hatfield House, the seat of the Marquess of Salisbury, since Lord Cranborne was his heir and indeed he and her ladyship eventually came into the title and the estates.
When I joined Lady Cranborne she was a lovely young lady in her early thirties. Although she had had two baby sons and had another one while I was with her, she’d a beautiful figure and carried her clothes to great advantage. Since the children were young I was able to get to know them well, indeed it was considered as part of my duties to relieve Nanny Woodman. She was one of the great figures of her world. The nursery at Charles Street was a delight and later the one at Hatfield was quite famous. She died in 1974 at Hothfield with the children and grandchildren looking after her.
Robert would have been ten and Michael about six when I went to the Cranbornes’, and baby Richard was born a year later. I think I should explain that the children were called by their family name Cecil, a name that is famous in history. Being the sons of a lord they put ‘Honourable’ before their names. It is one of the disadvantages of being born into the aristocracy, you have to keep changing your name whenever someone in the family dies. It makes it all very confusing for them and for anybody writing about them.
Michael was my favourite, I suppose because I spent more time with him. I hadn’t been at the Cranbornes’ long before I had to take him to Switzerland for a holiday (so much for Bessie and her ‘you won’t travel’). I remember we shared a double sleeper on the train and Lady Cranborne insisted that he had the top bunk. I didn’t sleep a wink all night for fear he would fall out. We had a lovely time together. Little boys are always so appreciative of what you do for them and he was a great companion. It was tragic that he should have died so unexpectedly while playing football at Eton when he was only sixteen. Richard, the youngest, was killed during the war.
Lady Cranborne was a loving and devoted mother. I say this because in my experience it was rare with the upper classes. Children I think were neglected – not where food, clothing or material things were concerned, but over the one thing that is perhaps more important than all of these – real love, love that shows. I’m sure that if you asked any mother of that class if she loved her children she would indignantly have said, ‘Of course, how dare you ask such a question,’ and she would have meant it, but love has to show when it’s given. It’s like a present, only more precious. Lady Cranborne had time for her children, which makes it so sad that two should have been taken from her when they were young.
My duties were similar to those at the Tuftons’ except that I was only responsible to her ladyship. Our relationship was the same as I had had with Miss Patricia, only more so. By that I mean that the division of class was more clearly defined. This in many ways had its advantages. I knew exactly where I stood, what was expected of me, what I could or could not say and do. I mention this now because this was the last position in which I had this kind of security. Lady Cranborne conformed to the accepted traditions of the time. By definition and by behaviour she was a lady. In my presence and in the presence of other servants, because otherwise I should have heard about it, she never deviated. She had set her standards and she never lowered them. I know this sounds hard to believe and dull to consider but in my opinion there was a lot to be said for it. For one thing it was easier to serve people whom you respected.
It was with Lady Cranborne that my ambition to travel was to be more fully realized. Almost every weekend we were away somewhere. In the summer it would be for social visits and in the winter for shooting parties – his lordship was considered a great shot and was much in demand. They both enjoyed the London season and Ascot was spent always with the Astors at Cliveden – exciting for me at first; little did I know that before long I should be living there and that it would be my home for almost all of the working life that lay before me.
We would move lock, stock and barrel to Cranborne Manor after the season. It was much the same pattern as at Appleby Castle, greater freedom, dancing with the farmers’ sons and getting ourselves unpopular with the local village girls. I had a French companion for these dances, Mademoiselle Magnier, who taught the Cecil boys French, and who was also a great help with mine. She was very vivacious and attractive and she had the village boys falling over each other for her favours, but she took her job seriously. After she left us she was engaged by Princess Marina, the Duchess of Kent, to teach her children. I remember chatting about her to Princess Alexandra when she was sitting on my knee in the car coming from the station to Cliveden.
After we left Cranborne we generally went to the South of France as many of the aristocracy would be there at that time and we’d take over a villa for a few weeks, then it would be my turn to show the British flag at the local dances. Once we stayed at Eze with Lt.-Col. and Madame Jacques Balsan. She had been the Duchess of Marlborough in her previous marriage. It was a large house with a beautiful view of Monte Carlo and the Mediterranean, and there was a big house party. It was my first glimpse of French servants; they had a full staff including a butler and three footmen. I’d been told how much harder they worked and how they were more subservient than we were, but I didn’t find it so. I was particularly astonished at the chauffeurs, who seemed able to use their employers’ cars whenever they wanted to. Astonished but not worried – it suited me because I was able to go out with them sightseeing and enjoying myself.
From there we went to Rome to visit the British Ambassador and we stayed a few days at the Embassy. As I remember the butler and the lady’s maid were both British but the rest of the servants were Italian. The servants’ hall they tried to run on our lines, but it wouldn’t have done over here: everyone seemed to be talking at once. The noise was unbearable; it must have driven the butler mad.
My knowledge of Italy and the Italians was strictly limited. One thing I’d heard in the servants’ hall was that Italian men were hot-blooded. During our short stay I was to have proof of this. The first morning we were there, as a footman handed me my lady’s breakfast tray he pressed his hands over mine. ‘Hello,’ I thought, ‘what’s he up to?’ Then I dismissed the incident. ‘He was probably making sure I’d got hold of it properly,’ I said to myself. I saw him once or twice during the day and each time he flashed a smile at me. I took it as a friendly gesture and gave him one back.
That night I was getting ready for bed and was standing in my voile knickers and vest when I saw a hand come round the edge of the door. I didn’t stop to think. I was over in a flash and pressing the door against the obtruding hand with all my strength. I watched it go red and then purple and I could hear some nasty Italian words uttered from the other side; there is no mistaking curses whatever language they come in. They began getting louder and as I didn’t want to wake the house I relaxed my pressure. The hand was quickly removed and there was a scuffling of feet down the corridor. I was taking no chances though so I dragged a heavy chest of drawers and pushed it against the door. After that I slept easily. The following morning I saw my sorrowful Romeo in the servants’ hall. He looked at me with reproachful eyes and his arm in a sling. I didn’t bother with the chest of drawers that night.
Before we went to Italy her ladyship spoke to me and told me not to mention the name Mussolini. I suppose he must have been coming to power around that time. I said, ‘My lady, I’ve never heard of him till now and even if I had I couldn’t pronounce his name.’
Again in Rome I came across the Astors. It was rather embarrassing. It was the morning we were due to leave the Embassy and I was in the Cranbornes’ room packing when there was a knock at the door. I went to see who it was and there was Mr Bushell, Lord Astor’s valet. ‘What are you doing h
ere?’ I asked.
‘Waiting for you to clear out,’ he said rudely. ‘My two are taking over this room; how much longer are you going to be?’
I tried signalling him to keep his voice down, but Lady Cranborne had heard. ‘Who is it, Rose?’ she asked. When I told her she put on an icy voice and said, ‘Tell Lord Astor’s servant to go away and that you will inform him when we are ready to leave.’
The trouble with Mr Bushell was that he was an excellent mimic and many’s the country house where he has told that story in a hoity-toity voice to her ladyship’s detriment.
From Rome we went to Lord Aberconway’s house in Antibes (as fashionable then as it is today). We had a long spell at an hotel at St Jean de Luz. Miss Alix Cavendish, her ladyship’s sister, was with us. She had contracted tuberculosis and it was thought the air would improve her health. I remember she brought her mother’s maid, Miss Norman, with her. By now I was beginning to get familiar with other servants from the many great houses. This was to make my life easier and more pleasant in the future, also much more interesting since the more friendly one became, the deeper was the gossip that was exchanged.
Visits to Paris became so common that it was not long before I knew it as well as I knew London. We always stayed at the Hotel du Rhin in the Place Vendome, a very nice comfortable little place opposite the Ritz. Most of Lady Cranborne’s clothes came from Paris or were made from materials we bought there. I went to many fashion shows with her. Her favourites were those of Jeanne Lanvin and Madame Chanel. Although she would buy the occasional model I suppose I should be sorry to say that we cheated; we plagiarized. I had a very good memory for the cut and line of a frock and Lady Cranborne was clever at remembering the detail. Sometimes we’d even make quick pencil sketches, though we were careful never to get caught doing this. When we got back home we wouldn’t make direct copies, we would take a feature of one dress and add it to a feature of another. Lady Cranborne’s favourite material was Mousseline de Soie; unheard of today, it felt like chiffon but was just a little heavier. Her ladyship was easy to fit and to sew for because as I have said she was tall and slim and had excellent and generally simple taste. She was a great credit to me, and I mean what I say, for ladies’ maids were very much judged by the way their employers were dressed; indeed it’s always been my opinion that that is how I came to work for Lady Astor, though she never would have said so.
Much of Lady Cranborne’s underlinen came from Paris, mostly made from triple ninon, beautifully appliquéd by French seamstresses. The rest I made, copied from what she had bought. All the lace we bought there too, and gloves, and her shoes were from Pinet except for her heavy ones which were bespoke in London. For her tweeds and some suits she went to Lord Cranborne’s tailor in Savile Row. It was a wonderful thing to be a young woman in society at that time. You could afford to dress, indeed you were expected to dress, elegantly, expensively and in the fashion, and remember fashions changed every year; today with most women it’s only in their later years that they are able to buy good clothes, when their looks and their figures have deteriorated. I suppose that it why we see so much mutton dressed as lamb.
Now that I was a proper lady’s maid I no longer wore print frocks. I was expected to dress simply, plainly, unassumingly yet in fashion. I wore jerseys and skirts with a cardigan in the mornings and afternoons; after tea or if I was going out earlier I changed into a blue or brown dress. A string of pearls or beads was permissible, so was a wristwatch, but other jewellery was frowned on. Make-up was not encouraged; indeed later I was rebuked for using lipstick. When ladies and their maids were out together there could never be any mistaking which was which.
One habit that Lady Cranborne had that I didn’t care for was that she would drive fast and often dangerously; indeed it was a common fault of the upper classes. They wouldn’t be able to do it today, but they seemed to have a way with the police then. At the mention of their names constables would close their notebooks. Many’s the narrow squeak I’ve had in a car with her ladyship. I remember once we were driving through the New Forest in her Lagonda; we’d reached Cadnam and she swung round taking up two-thirds of the road and hit an oncoming Rolls Royce on its side as it tried to avoid us. We rocked from one pair of wheels to the other but we stayed upright. When I recovered from the shock I looked back and there was the Rolls in the ditch. Her ladyship ignored the whole incident and went driving on as if nothing had happened.
‘It’s no good, my lady,’ I said, plucking up my courage, ‘you’ll have to turn back. If you don’t you’ll get all the blame because the evidence is there on the road.’
She didn’t reply, but a few moments later, after she’d thought about it a bit, she turned the car round and went back. It was as well she did because she’d hit Lord Wimborne’s car and he had recognized her. There was a good deal of talk all round, although my opinion was never asked or given. Eventually they shook hands and that was the last we heard about it. No court case, no nothing. I remember that on our way home we broke an axle on Hammersmith Bridge and had to complete our journey by cab – by the way Lady Cranborne spoke you would have thought it was the makers of the car who were to blame, not the punishment she’d given to it.
And she did punish it; on another occasion when we were going to lunch with Lady Apsley, suddenly the car seemed to bounce all over the place. Eventually Lady Cranborne decided to stop and see what was wrong. It was obvious that one of the back tyres was torn to pieces. ‘Oh well, Rose,’ she said, ‘we can’t stop now or we’ll be late for lunch.’
By the time we arrived there was nothing left of the tyre, the wheel rim was flattened and every part of my anatomy seemed to have changed places. Her ladyship didn’t turn a hair, just got out as though nothing had happened. I imagine one of Lady Apsley’s chauffeurs saw to the car because the wheel had been changed when we came out of the house.
I was with Lady Cranborne for five years. I might have stayed with her indefinitely: she was a pleasure to serve, my life was interesting, I was fulfilling my ambition to travel; unfortunately there was one stumbling-block, money. I was still only earning £24 a year and any request I made for an increase was flatly, almost rudely, refused. I don’t know whether there was a conspiracy among the upper classes to keep servants’ wages down, but everyone I knew in service at that time met with the same brick-wall attitude. The only way to get more was to change employers, and this couldn’t be done too often otherwise you earned the reputation of being unreliable and having itchy feet.
Once again I had the emotions of loyalty and affection pulling at my heartstrings, with the added problem of my fondness for the children to contend with. But the strongest pull for me was always my mother and my family. Mum had struggled on gamely after Dad’s death, but it was evident that she couldn’t go on working for ever. I wanted to be in a position to buy her a little bungalow down in the south, nearer to myself and my sisters, and ten shillings a week wouldn’t be enough for me to do this, so I hardened my heart and began to look around. It wasn’t necessary for me to go to an agency. By now I was well enough known to the staffs of the big houses to be able to put the word round that I was thinking of making a change for something to be suggested to me through the grapevine. And there was the added advantage of knowing in that way everything about the job and the person I’d be working for. Employers used to set great store by references. They had to be immaculate, otherwise you stood no chance of the job. In my early days in service I thought that we ought to have the right to demand something of the same from our employers, before we decided whether to take the job on or not, but after a few years in work this wasn’t necessary. We had a ‘Who’s Who’ and a ‘What’s What’ below stairs which contained more personal and colourful information about the gentry than ever the written version did. There was also a black list, and woe betide anyone who got on it. It could spell ruination for any hostess.
As it happened I didn’t need recourse to the underground. Ascot week followed close
on my decision to make a change and as always we spent it with the Astors at Cliveden. One evening I was standing outside Lady Cranborne’s bedroom door; she had taken her bath and was making herself presentable before calling me in to dress her. I think that I should explain here that ladies never exposed their bodies to their maids. I never saw any of my ladies naked, except for Lady Astor, and then only when she was nearing the end of her life and needed me to help her do everything. This modesty may seem somewhat incomprehensible now; then it wasn’t. Dignity at all times and in all places was very much the order of the day and while I think all my ladies could have preserved theirs even in the nude, some others had figures so grotesque that the memory of them when they were in the mood to command would have sent many maids into hysterics.
As I was saying, I was waiting outside Lady Cranborne’s door when Lady Astor passed down the corridor talking to her maid, Mrs Vidler. She glanced at me and said, ‘Good evening.’ I’d visited Cliveden many times so my face was familiar to her. As she got farther down the corridor I heard her say, ‘That’s the maid for me.’
I’m sure she meant it as a compliment, but it ruffled my North Country feathers. ‘Not if I’ve anything to do with it,’ I said to myself. I suppose there were two reasons. I knew that over the past year Lady Astor had had difficulty keeping her maids and, as I’ve intimated, there was such a thing as a difficult employer as well as a difficult servant. Also I thought it a slight on Mrs Vidler to say such a thing to her face. I was later to learn to turn a deaf ear to remarks like that and that pinpricks of that kind peppered your body when you served Lady Astor.
Rose: My Life in Service to Lady Astor Page 4
