The General's Granddaughter

by Dorothy Mack

  “I never met anyone I wished to marry.” Sarah produced the automatic lie while her mind headed down another path. This was a most extraordinary conversation to be having with a servant, but the well-spoken woman facing her was evidently no ordinary servant. “I do not even know your name,” she said abruptly.

  “My name is Grace Medlark.” The maid smiled and her quiet-featured face came alive, rendering her most attractive with her soft brown curls and neat figure.

  “Why was it necessary to send to London for a housekeeper, Grace?” Sarah asked, her curiosity as great now as the other woman’s had been earlier. “Surely you could have filled the position admirably.”

  “I could, but the housekeeper must live in. I am married and live in the village with my family. I come in two or three days a week to help out, though it has been every day just lately since the last housekeeper left.”

  “Why did she go?”

  Grace’s lips twisted wryly. “Why do any of them go? The general, Sir Hector, is not an easy man to work for; in fact,” she added with the air of someone coming to a sudden understanding of a universal truth, “that about sums him up: the general is not an easy man. Things were different in the old days when my mother worked here. That was when Lady Ridgemont was still alive. He loved her very much, as did most everyone who knew her. She had a softening effect on her husband and generally acted as a mediator between him and the servants, and the locals, and even their children. From the time she died — it must have been all of five-and-twenty years ago — the general began to grow more and more difficult to get along with. He had already disowned one of his children, and the others only come here when they want something. He has alienated all of his neighbours except Lord Eversley, and of late there has been a steady procession of servants coming and going.”

  “I am astonished that you bothered to unpack for me,” Sarah said dryly, and noted the gleam of amused understanding that appeared in Grace’s eyes. She would have liked to pump the maid for information about her father but prudently refrained. She did inquire, “How is it that this Lord Eversley has remained friendly enough to assist in hiring a housekeeper?”

  “Lord Eversley’s father and the general were fast friends in the old days, and the son seems to feel almost a filial duty toward his old neighbour. The estates adjoin and share the woodland between them. Except for the family’s rare visits, Lord Eversley has been the only caller to be welcomed at Beech Hill for several years. Before Sir Hector became so poorly, Lord Eversley was used to stop in three or four times a week to play a game of chess with him.”

  “Sir Hector is ill?”

  “He has long suffered from a painful arthritic complaint and the gout, but of late his heart has weakened. He has not left his room in nearly a month, and the doctor is quite concerned, I believe. I know that he spoke to Lord Eversley last week when he chanced to call during one of Doctor Rydell’s visits. You look distressed, Mrs. Boston.”

  “Sarah. Please call me Sarah.”

  “Very well, then, Sarah. You need not concern yourself personally with Sir Hector’s health except insofar as it imposes on the housekeeping. Any personal care he requires is performed by his valet. Somers has been with the general for thirty years or more; indeed, he is the only servant in residence who has been here for any length of time. Even the estate steward has taken over only in the past year when his father, who filled the position before him, died. The maids and indoor servants come and go, and we find it nearly impossible to keep a cook, the general being notoriously hard to please and prone to complain about his food. If I mistake not, the last housekeeper never laid eyes on Sir Hector during her entire stay. She said it was like working for a phantom, but she found out otherwise when her supervision of the laundry became slack. Sir Hector likes his sheets soft and scented with bay berry. It is unlikely that you need have any contact with him at all.”

  Sarah smiled faintly, thinking all the while that Grace could not know how far from the mark her attempts at offering reassurance were falling.

  When Sarah had recovered her composure and freshened her appearance, Grace brought her along to the steward’s room, where she was introduced to Millbank, Sir Hector’s butler, and Tom Gridley, the young estate steward. Presently the maid left her to return to her home, promising to act as her guide the following day, when it would be time enough to initiate the new housekeeper into her duties. Sarah watched her go with the same desperation with which a child being deposited at school for the first time must regard his parents’ disappearing carriage.

  Sarah had cause to be grateful later that evening to the unnatural pallor that had lingered even after the migraine had largely departed. She dined with the upper servants, an occasion fraught with danger for someone attempting a desperate masquerade. She had never spent any time in a large country house and certainly could not be expected to know anything of the rigid protocol existing belowstairs. For once she had no qualms about taking advantage of the fact that men found her misleading appearance of fragility appealing. She said very little at table, but her brain was functioning at a feverish rate as she tried to assimilate the nuances of the relationships existing among those who would be her associates for the next day or two. She liked ruddy-faced Tom Gridley, who seemed to be an honest, easy-going fellow who took people at face value. In contrast, the butler took pains to impress upon her his superiority over the local servants by virtue of having worked for a time as under-butler in an earl’s London establishment. Her instincts told her he was also the type to take as many liberties as a female permitted. She didn’t care for the predatory look in his blue-grey eyes and kept her own on her plate when she sensed his attention swinging her way.

  The other two persons at table the first night were Somers, Sir Hector’s valet, and Mrs. Hadley, the cook. The latter eased her considerable bulk onto a chair with a gusty sigh of relief and, after briefly acknowledging Sarah’s presence with a friendly greeting, launched herself into a litany of complaints concerning the deteriorating condition of her feet, knees, and back as a result of long hours of working in the stone-floored kitchen. She directed her remarks mainly toward the newcomer, who contrived to look properly sympathetic, while conscious that all present went on unconcernedly with their meals. It seemed safe to assume that Mrs. Hadley’s complaints were a regular part of the programme at supper. The cook dominated the conversation, being as garrulous as she was wide, but though she could be counted on for a contribution — and many of them tart — on any subject raised, there seemed to be no real malice in the woman’s makeup. She kept a sharp eye on the kitchen maid who waited on them, correcting her once or twice, but then dismissing her in good time to return to the more lively society of the servants’ hall.

  The general’s valet stood in striking contrast to the overstuffed, voluble cook. Somers was a thin, desiccated little man with a pointed nose, a thin mouth, claw-like fingers, and a fringe of grey hair framing a bald pate. He was sparing of speech, initiating none and only replying to the questions of the others when he chose to exert himself. By the end of the meal, Sarah had concluded that he was held in healthy respect by all the others, even the self-important Millbank deferring to him on occasion. Surprisingly, he had the appetite of a vulture, and Mrs. Hadley called his attention to the choicest bits offered. The food was plentiful and of a good quality. Though Sarah had no standard of comparison, she was quick to note that the servants at Beech Hill, at least the upper servants, did well for themselves.

  Finding herself ravenous after two days of near fasting, she made an excellent meal under the approving eye of Mrs. Hadley, who forthrightly declared that the new housekeeper looked “peaky” and promised to “fill her out” with good wholesome food. Won over by the woman’s genuine goodwill, Sarah dropped her guard and smiled warmly back, an action she had cause to regret as she felt the quickening of interest around the table in her person. Her face flamed and she avoided the butler’s eye, but she hadn’t missed the peacocky gesture of
adjusting the folds of his cravat. Even Somers, who had barely glanced at her upon introduction, was now regarding her with an intentness that rendered her uncomfortable. Her smile faltered and she missed the first question in the kindly inquisition now conducted by Mrs. Hadley, who repeated her question patiently. Sarah recited the fabrication she had concocted for Grace Medlark that afternoon. She was beginning to doubt her creative ingenuity and ability to satisfy the cook’s more pressing inquiries when Tom Gridley unknowingly came to her rescue.

  “How was the general today, Somers? Any better?”

  To Sarah’s palpitating relief, the casual question sparked a discussion of her grandfather’s symptoms that allowed her to fade into the background once more, where she was determined to remain. Pleading travel fatigue, she excused herself shortly thereafter, retiring to the more-than-adequate bedchamber that was assigned to the housekeeper. As she removed her clothing and prepared for bed, she could not prevent the ironic reflection that Sir Hector Ridgemont’s servants were considerably better housed and fed than his grandchildren.

  Though perhaps undeserved, Sarah’s sleep was that of the just that night, and she didn’t stir the next morning until a diminutive maidservant appeared with a cup of chocolate, an unlooked-for luxury that opened her eyes wide. Despite the auspicious beginning to her stay at Beech Hill, Sarah’s nerves were vibrating as she took stock of her appearance. The black dress with its delicate white bib and collar, recently pressed by another little maid, was neat and sober enough, but the charmingly frivolous cap did not, to her critical eye, bespeak the housekeeper. It would have to do, however, since she possessed no other and could scarcely ask Mrs. Hadley or one of the maids for the loan of a mobcap. She had never had her hair cut according to the dictates of fashion because her father had cherished a prejudice in favour of long hair. The worried lines smoothed out of her face as she concluded, mistakenly, that by pulling back the customary soft waves over her temples into the bun at the nape of her neck she had added years and dignity befitting her assumed position. Anyway, it was the best she could do.

  Grace Medlark conducted Sarah all over the large house after introducing her to the laundress and the eight housemaids and two laundry-room maids who would all be under her direction. Long before the tour was completed, Sarah had arrived at a sober appreciation that the position of housekeeper in a house the size of Beech Hill was no sinecure, even when the resident family consisted of a solitary invalid.

  The two-story great hall probably had not been used except sporadically for large ceremonial occasions for generations, but its location as the centre of the house demanded that it be perfectly maintained at all times. The saloon behind it had been used for family dining when a family indeed resided on the estate, and was still kept in readiness to perform this function no matter how seldom required. Around this central core were four symmetrical apartments, and between the apartments were two front staircases and two other good-sized chambers, a chapel on one side of the great hall and a library on the other. Each corner apartment contained an antechamber or withdrawing room, a bedchamber and two small rooms behind this, taking up the length of the bedchamber. The larger of these had originally functioned as a servant’s bedroom and the other served variously as a cabinet or dressing room or private sanctum. Each corner apartment also had a back staircase leading down to the rusticated basement level for the use of the servants.

  A first-floor room above the dining saloon had been designed for a family living room, Grace explained, but like all the other apartments on that level, it was rarely needed of late. A second floor contained nurseries and bedrooms for female servants. The indoor male servants were billeted in the rusticated level while the outdoor servants slept in the stable wing. Sarah learned that the one modern innovation in the house had been the wiring of the main apartments a few years before so that a numbered bell board outside the servants’ hall could record from which room a summons had come and the appropriate servant could be sent off to answer it. Since no one was in residence save the general, Sarah could not work up much enthusiasm for this ingenious invention. She would have infinitely preferred the convenience of running water above the lowest level of the house. She reminded herself that the problem of toting water all over the house for cleaning purposes would belong to the real housekeeper in two days. To this paragon also would belong the domain of the stillroom with its stoves for preparing tea and coffee and the making of items from biscuits to preserves and medicaments to be stored on its shelves. While she was here, she would enjoy taking a shelf-by-shelf tour of the fascinating place, though Grace said the previous housekeeper had shirked her responsibility in this area also and had let the supplies dwindle without replacement.

  Sarah thoroughly enjoyed her introduction to her father’s childhood home, but by the time Grace left her to catch up on some duties of her own, she had discovered that it was going to be no simple matter to secure an audience with her grandfather. His personal apartment was the one in the southwestern corner of the house next to the chapel. Grace was the only maid he would tolerate in his rooms to do the cleaning, but even she had been excluded from his bedchamber these past weeks. When showing Sarah the withdrawing room that was part of this apartment, she had nodded toward a closed door in the far wall and confided in a whisper that poor Somers scarcely ever got to leave the apartment these days, as he had had to take over the cleaning chores in the bedchamber also.

  At the time, Sarah had experienced a little thrill of excitement at actually standing in the next room to her grandfather at last, but by late afternoon of a busy day she had come to realize that in order to make sure of seeing him before the arrival of the real housekeeper, it might be necessary to walk boldly into his bedchamber uninvited. She dreaded the necessity, which would set her at even more of a disadvantage than she already was, but she could see no alternative if her grandfather had no immediate intention of even meeting his new housekeeper.

  Sarah was in the kitchen chatting with Mrs. Hadley before the servants’ meal when Somers came in carrying a tray, his air faintly apologetic. “The general didn’t fancy the custard, after all, Cook. He said it didn’t taste like the old-fashioned sort.”

  The cook’s huge curled knuckles went to her hips, elbows aggressively sticking out as she retorted, “That receipt has been in my family for generations. If that don’t make it old-fashioned, I dunno what would.”

  “Somers, I have a receipt for custard that my father was used to say came from his mother,” Sarah said eagerly, but it was the cook who replied, “Well, it can’t hurt to try it, though I doubt anything would please the general these days, poor man, he’s that finicky. You tell it to me tomorrow, dearie, and I’ll make some for him.”

  “Mrs. Hadley, I know you need to get off your poor feet for a spell at this time of day,” Sarah said, smiling coaxingly at the puffing cook. “Why not let me mix up some custard now, then it can bake while we have our meal, and Somers will be able to take some up to Sir Hector before he goes to sleep tonight.” Before the cook could voice the doubt spreading over her globular countenance, Sarah turned to the valet and continued, “The only thing is, Somers, that the custard receipt calls for brandy, so will you please find some for me — the good brandy, please?” Her smile became mischievous as the doubt spread to the spare features of the valet, and she held up her right hand. “I solemnly promise not to sample a drop, Somers; it will all go in the custard.”

  Sarah held her breath, but her smile had done the trick. The cook gave a comfortable chuckle and Somers relaxed the sternness of his features minimally. “Very good, miss,” he said, handing her the tray he still carried. “I’ll fetch the brandy.”

  Sarah was less attentive to the conversation at table that evening. Her thoughts were with her custard baking gently in an oven. It had to be perfect, it just had to be! That custard could be her ticket to her grandfather’s presence. Not that she would not get to see him eventually, she reassured herself, but infinitely better
to be summoned than to burst in uninvited. It was all she could do to keep her eyes off the clock on the sideboard while the meal dragged on. Only another ten minutes or so now before the custard would be done. It wouldn’t do to overcook it.

  It was a salutary lesson in self-discipline to sit quietly at the table, answering when spoken to, when the success of her mission might be hanging in the balance. She glanced at the clock. Fifty minutes since she had placed the custard in the oven. Her glance winged to the cook, willing her to cease her conversation with Millbank. She would give Mrs. Hadley five minutes longer to act on her own, then she would have to slip in a casual reminder. It would never do to let the cook suspect that a simple custard was of paramount importance to the housekeeper.

  It lacked one minute to the time limit Sarah had set when Mrs. Hadley heaved herself out of her chair with a sigh. “I’ve to check something in the oven,” she explained, edging her bulky frame away from the table.

  Sarah forced herself to remain in her place over the next fifteen minutes, though her contributions to the conversation were uninspired at best. At the end of that time, Mrs. Hadley stuck her head back into the room to tell Somers that the custard was ready whenever he should care to take it up to the general. At that point, Sarah excused herself to go to her own room. Her nerves were on the stretch and she feared she would give herself away. Impossible to sit decorously at a table participating in mindless small talk when her brother’s future was at stake.

  In her room, she felt too keyed up to remain stationary. There was no real cause to expect a summons at all, she told herself dampingly as she opened one of the linen presses that lined half of the room. Even if her grandfather, in his weakened state, sampled and liked the custard, it did not necessarily follow that he would recognize his wife’s receipt, or that he would have any interest in learning where it came from. She had assumed too much, she thought as she began to inventory the household linens. She had better resign herself to the necessity of shamelessly invading her grandfather’s privacy tomorrow if she were to put her case to him during this grace period.