Together for Christmas

by Carol Rivers

  Mrs Harris gave them a quick glance but said nothing.

  ‘Follow me.’ Mrs Burns led them through the kitchen and into a passage. They flattened themselves against the wall as a footman rushed past. He was carrying a tray of glasses and a decanter. Dressed in a black coat with brass buttons and starched shirt front, the good-looking young man smiled.

  They were on their way again, hurrying after Mrs Burns. At the end of the passage, an older man in a black-tailed suit stepped into their path. Flora noted his immaculate appearance.

  ‘Mr Leighton, this is Jones,’ Mrs Burns announced. ‘Lady Hailing’s recommendation.’

  Flora watched Hilda almost curtsey. She knew her friend was trying to make a good impression.

  ‘And the other?’ the butler asked in a gruff voice.

  ‘Her companion for the day.’

  ‘An unfortunate time to arrive,’ Mr Leighton muttered.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Mrs Burns. ‘But allowances must be made for the length of the journey.’

  Mr Leighton curled his hand over the two inches of greying hair on his head. ‘Perhaps, Mrs Burns, you might like to use my rooms, as we are so busy. I’m to be upstairs for Lord William in just a few minutes.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Leighton.’ The housekeeper turned to Hilda. ‘Follow me.’ Then, as if remembering Flora, she added, ‘You’ll wait in Mr Leighton’s office.’

  Flora was about to thank her – or the butler, she didn’t know whom – when a commotion came from behind them. Flora turned to see a young maid on her knees and recognized her as the girl she’d seen outside with Mrs Burns. Her apron and the floor were covered in what looked like soup.

  Mr Leighton strode towards her. Flora could hear the angry tone of his voice as the maid tried to clean up the mess. Flora felt sorry for her. She must have bumped into the footman who’d been rushing down the passage with a soup tureen.

  ‘You clumsy girl,’ called Mrs Burns, and Hilda met Flora’s glance. Her friend gave a stifled giggle. But Flora didn’t think there was anything amusing about the maid’s predicament.

  Once more, they were flying down the passage. The dark wood surrounding them and lack of light made the downstairs rooms very gloomy. But at least here, thought Flora, the rooms were cooler, being away from the intense heat of the kitchens.

  ‘Here,’ said Mrs Burns as they entered a room. There was a highly polished desk in front of Flora, with a high back and thick ledgers neatly balanced in a row. The big chair beside it had spindles forming a pattern from the seat to the headrest. Beside it was a small table at which a simple wooden chair stood. Flora decided it was here she must sit.

  ‘Jones?’ Mrs Burns crooked a long, bony finger at Hilda. Picking up her skirts in an effort to catch up with the housekeeper, Hilda almost tripped over. Receiving a glare from the older woman, the two figures disappeared from sight.

  In silence, Flora sat on the smaller chair and looked around her. The dark wood felt oppressive; though the fire was made up in the hearth, it wasn’t lit. Two un-cushioned leather armchairs stood to either side of it. A number of black-framed photographs were mounted on the walls. Just below the ceiling there was a long wooden rack with a row of labelled metal bells.

  Flora began to feel thirsty. They had gone all morning without a drink. Breakfast, a crust of bread and cheese eaten in the cart, had been hours ago.

  How different this was to Mrs Bell’s cosy kitchen, Flora thought with dismay. She looked at the door that Hilda had gone through. It remained firmly shut and so Flora sat back, trying to ignore the loud rumbling of her tummy.

  ‘’Ello, miss.’ The maid who’d had the accident with the soup stood before Flora, carrying a tray full of silver pots. ‘You been waiting all this time?’

  ‘I was told to sit here by Mrs Burns while she interviews my friend, Hilda.’

  ‘Oh, is she the new girl? The one we was told was coming from London?’

  Flora nodded. ‘Hilda’s in – or was in – service to Lady Hailing.’ To Flora, the little maid looked no more than a child. She was scrawny, and her head looked too big for her small body. Her cap was pulled down over her straggly brown hair, wisps of which burst out over her pale face. Her apron still bore the stains of the soup. ‘Did you hurt yourself when you fell?’ Flora asked kindly.

  ‘Nah. Gets knocked about regular, but it don’t worry me. Mrs Harris belts me with a wooden spoon when she’s a mind to. But I don’t care. I’m from the workhouse, see. Anyfink’s better than that.’

  Flora smiled. ‘I’m Flora.’ She stretched out her hand.

  The maid giggled. She put her small, damp hand in Flora’s. ‘I’m Gracie, the scullery maid. I should be Smith, but everyone just yells Gracie. Dunno why. You coming to work here an’ all?’

  ‘No, I just travelled up with Hilda. She’s my best friend, you see.’

  ‘I’d like a best friend meself,’ Gracie said brightly. ‘I ain’t never ’ad one. It’s everyone for themselves in the work’ouse.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll like Hilda,’ Flora assured her. ‘Hadn’t you better put those pots down? They look very heavy.’

  Gracie gave a little chuckle. ‘I’m taking ’em to Mr Leighton’s pantry. All the silver’s cleaned there by the footman. James is the one wot ran over me.’

  ‘You took a hard fall.’

  ‘Never mind. I ain’t crippled, am I?’ She glanced at a closed door on the other side of the room. ‘Come wiv me, if you like.’

  ‘What about Mrs Burns and Mr Leighton?’

  ‘We won’t be long.’

  Reluctantly, Flora followed Gracie. She hoped the butler wouldn’t appear suddenly. Or Mrs Burns cut short her interview with Hilda.

  ‘This is Mr Leighton’s dining room and pantry,’ Gracie explained as they entered a room fitted with a long table, with six or so chairs on either side. Gracie placed the tray on the table. There were cupboards and drawers to the rear and a low sink and draining board next to a small annexe. Gracie set the tray down by a tall cupboard. ‘The silver’s washed and polished here, and over there is the safe where all the valuables is kept. It’s only Mr Leighton wot has the key.’ Gracie indicated another door fitted with a large brass lock. ‘Down there’s the cellar. Great big blooming place it is, with booze of all sorts. Spirits, ales, sherries and ports, cases of the best champagne and wines from all over the world. Mr Leighton’s in charge of that an’ all.’

  ‘I think we’d better go back.’ Flora felt uneasy, as if she was snooping.

  Gracie smiled secretively, her pale, thin face almost lost under her cap. ‘Don’t worry, they won’t know we’ve been ’ere.’

  Flora followed Gracie back to the office, her heart thumping, and quickly sat down on her chair.

  Gracie stared at her. ‘Bet you’re gasping, ain’t you?’

  Flora nodded. ‘I am a little.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can get yer a cuppa.’

  ‘Oh, don’t trouble yourself.’

  Gracie winked. ‘I’ll tell Mrs ’Aarris you’re a breath off fainting.’

  ‘Oh, no, don’t!’ Flora called, but Gracie scurried off. Flora hoped Gracie wouldn’t get them into trouble. Flora didn’t want to create a poor impression for Hilda’s sake.

  The minutes ticked by, and Flora’s eye was caught by the many photographs on the walls. As neither Gracie nor Mr Leighton had returned, she got up to look at them. One was dated January 1912 and this made Flora smile. She recognized Mrs Burns and Mr Leighton immediately, with their sombre expressions and backs stiff as brooms. They were the only two members of the large group of staff who were seated.

  ‘That one was taken three years ago, just after I started,’ said a small, squeaky voice behind Flora. Gracie put a cup of tea on the table. ‘I was just eleven.’

  ‘So you’re only fourteen now?’

  Gracie nodded. ‘Mr Leighton didn’t want me in it, but Mr Flowers slipped me in when ’e wasn’t looking.’

  ‘Who’s Mr Flowers?’ Flora asked curi
ously.

  ‘That’s ’im there.’ Gracie pointed to a tall young man with a pleasant, friendly expression. ‘’E was ’ead footman. Everso nice ’e was. But ’e volunteered. Same as . . .’ She drew her rough red finger along the row of men. ‘. . . Mr Sherwood who was the chauffeur and Mr Frith – ’im there, with the moustache and gun, the gamekeeper. They all went to war in the ’eat of the moment, thinking they’d be back by Christmas last year.’ Gracie hesitated, gesturing to the footman Flora had seen in the kitchen. ‘Lucas took Mr Flowers’ place. Reckons ’e’s got a bad back and couldn’t do any marchin’. James and John, these two, are brothers and footmen. Chosen special by Lady Bertha, as they’re tall and good-looking. And there’s Maxwell, of course, Lord Guy’s valet. Says he’s got dropped arches and flat feet and wouldn’t be no good at marchin’. Then there’s Turner, see, but ’e’s too old to volunteer, and Lord William couldn’t do without ’is valet. Dunno what’ll happen if the government takes all our young men. That’s why Mrs Burns wanted your ’Ilda. In case we’re caught short.’

  ‘And the women will do all the men’s jobs?’ Flora asked.

  ‘We’ll all muck in. Mr Leighton has taken on girls from the village.’ Gracie scuffed the back of her hand across her nose. ‘But they ain’t very respectful, not like us wot live ’ere.’ Gracie returned her attention to the photograph. ‘This ’ere is Violet, Lady Bertha’s maid. She’s in Italy with the family at their summer ’ouse.’

  ‘How long has she been Lady Bertha’s maid?’

  ‘Dunno. Mrs Bell said she started as a housemaid and worked her way up.’

  Flora thought of Hilda as she studied Violet, who according to the photograph was a smartly dressed woman in her thirties. She had an air of confidence about her as she stood with her hands clasped together.

  Gracie shuffled along to a large black-framed photograph at the end of the row. ‘’Ere’s Mr Leighton’s pride and joy. The only photograph we’ve got of the earl and his family. Course, I ain’t ever seen the earl, Lord William. Not with me own eyes. Mrs ’Arris told me something ’appened to ’im to make ’im go a bit barmy after his wife died. But ’e looks a fine gent in ’is uniform, don’t he? And that’s his sister Lady Bertha and ’er ’usband, Mr James Forsythe.’ Gracie’s dark eyes, ringed by purple smudges, narrowed as she indicated another young man. Once again, her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘That’s Lord Guy, the earl’s son and heir. ’Andsome, ain’t ’e? Yer’d never believe the mischief he’s reputed to get up to.’

  Again, Flora thought of what Mrs Bell had said. ‘Why isn’t he at war?’ asked Flora curiously.

  ‘They say ’e’s not right upstairs.’ Gracie tapped her forehead. ‘Something to do with when ’e was born and the cord bein’ round ’is neck.’

  ‘That sounds like an old wives’ tale.’

  ‘Well, his poor mother died pushing him through, didn’t she? Lady Amelia was young and beautiful. She was a great loss to the old lord, who they say never grew close to the child that killed ’er.’

  Just then the door creaked behind them. Flora saw Gracie start.

  ‘What are you doing here, Gracie?’ the butler demanded.

  ‘Nothin’, sir, nothin’ at all.’

  ‘Gracie brought me tea,’ Flora volunteered, aware that Gracie seemed to be shrinking down into her boots. ‘It was a long journey from London.’

  Mr Leighton scowled at the scullery maid. ‘You’d better get back to your duties. And for goodness’ sake, don’t drop anything else today.’

  Flora saw Gracie scoot off. The butler looked at Flora, then at the photographs on the wall. Squaring his shoulders, he demanded, ‘Is there anything you wish to know?’

  Flora blushed. ‘No, nothing, thank you.’

  ‘In that case, you had better drink your tea. After which, I daresay you’d like to take some fresh air. The kitchen gardens provide adequate shelter from the elements.’

  Averting her eyes, Flora returned to her seat. She lifted the cup and sipped from it, aware of the butler’s burning gaze. She realized she had been told to leave.

  Mr Leighton swept out of the room. Flora gave a deep sigh of relief. Would Hilda be happy here? Though her best friend complained about her life at Hailing House, Flora thought that things were likely to be very much harder here at Adelphi Hall.

  Hilda was speechless. She was standing inside the entrance hall of the house she had been dreaming about ever since she first saw its picture in the library book. But all her dreams had been surpassed. The vaulted ceilings above her were higher than the convent’s chapel. A wide, carpeted staircase led up to the interior rooms. She gazed in awe at the mahogany balustrades, the gilt-framed paintings on the walls, mostly of military men, and the dazzling treasures in their glass cases. Mrs Burns indicated a shield above the entrance doors.

  ‘The Talbott coat-of-arms,’ she said in a proud voice.

  Hilda stared at the shield. On the left was carved a red dragon, breathing fire. On the right, a golden lion curled at the feet of a knight who wore silver armour. Around his lance was plaited strands of gold and red.

  ‘As you know, the family are away, except Lord William,’ said Mrs Burns, as they stood on the creamy waxed flagstones. ‘I’m at liberty to show you some of the rooms and the duties you will be expected to perform in their upkeep. Think yourself lucky. Lowers are not usually given this honour. But since you come with a recommendation from Lady Hailing . . .’

  Hilda blushed. She felt as though she had already been singled out for special attention. Did Mrs Burns see in her something that had always been overlooked at Hailing House? Hilda didn’t much care for the housekeeper, but what did it matter, when she was soon to be part of all this?

  ‘Every room in this house has a discreetly placed communicating door to the servants’ stairs. We serve the family twenty-four hours a day, and quite often it is necessary in the middle of the night. Mr Leighton and the footmen are free to come and go according to their duties. You are not. Maids are never to be seen by the family. You go about your duties when the rooms are unoccupied. Should you by chance, or mistake, meet your employer, you give way immediately, lowering your eyes, making yourself invisible. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Burns.’ Hilda thought of the informal practices she had been accustomed to at Hailing House. Lady Hailing always acknowledged her and Aggie, should they meet. She often asked them how they were and gave them a friendly smile. But, thought Hilda proudly, this was a proper aristocratic mansion and run on quite different lines, the rules of which she was sure she would soon get used to.

  ‘Furthermore, there is to be no fraternizing with the opposite sex. No gambling, smoking or abusive language. You are to be punctual, clean and polite. There is no admittance to visitors, friends or relations without my knowledge and approval as I have already warned you. You will bring your own clothes: two uniform dresses, two working pinafores, a black dress, a white cap and apron. A cap must be worn at all times, under penalty of dismissal for not doing so. A black bonnet is required for Sunday service.’ Mrs Burns narrowed her eyes disapprovingly at Hilda’s green hat and feather. ‘No colours are to be attempted. Hair to be drawn back, braided and pinned securely.’

  Hilda nodded vigorously. She would do anything to live here in this wonderful house. She would make herself new uniform and a black dress in no time at all. As for the black bonnet and going to church, Hilda gave a slight shudder. She hadn’t been to Mass since she left the orphanage, except at Christmas with Flora and Mrs Bell and Aggie.

  ‘Underwear and footwear,’ continued Mrs Burns, glancing down at Hilda’s rather worn brown boots. ‘Lisle stockings, black of course, and boots polished daily, twice if necessary. Laced stays, cotton vests, petticoats and bloomers.’

  Hilda thought that she would have to go to the market to buy herself some of these things. Most of her underclothes were darned to within in an inch of their lives. She had only recently made one petticoat out of two, since the cotton h
ad frayed so badly. As for her bloomers . . .

  The housekeeper drew herself up, her flat chest rising. ‘Now, your wage. As an under housemaid, for the time being, you’ll earn twenty pounds in the year.’

  Hilda smiled. Although this was three pounds short of her current wage, Mrs Burns had added those tantalising words, ‘for the time being’. This must mean there was hope she might become a permanent member of staff. Hilda vowed silently that she would try to keep on the good side of Mrs Burns. Already Hilda could feel the house drawing her in. She imagined herself as Lady Bertha’s personal maid. She knew it was possible if she really tried.

  Mrs Burns was moving on. Hilda hurried to follow. At the top of the staircase, on the first landing, Hilda’s heart leaped. A life-sized painting hung before her of a dark-headed young man, perhaps the most handsome she had ever seen. He posed for the artist, a gun and a dog at his side. His glimmering dark eyes fixed her. Hilda heard her own gasp. Shod in sturdy brown boots, leather gaiters and tweed jacket, he looked every inch the huntsman. The matching breeches and knee-length stockings, which Hilda had rarely, if ever, seen before, added to his slightly arrogant stance. The artist had caught the rich, black texture of his hair, and his aloof, sensual gaze and broad shoulders. Hilda took her breath once more. She couldn’t tear her eyes away.

  ‘Lord Guy Calvey,’ announced Mrs Burns, as though she was addressing an audience. ‘Son of Lord William, the fourth Earl of Talbott.’

  All Hilda could do was stare. Lord Guy’s presence seemed to fill the wide landing, the next set of stairs, the spacious, opulent and magnificent rooms around them, indeed the whole of Adelphi Hall. She had never felt as if a painting was alive before. There was any number of works of art at Hailing House, hung in the private rooms. She dusted their frames every day. But none of them had an effect on her like this.

  ‘Come along, there’s no time to waste,’ scolded Mrs Burns, frowning at Hilda’s hesitation. ‘There are the state rooms to visit yet, where we shall examine the duties you will be expected to perform at six a.m. sharp, before the household wakes. The saloon, the dining, drawing and smoking rooms, and the library.’ She nodded to a room to her left. Through gold-gilded double doors Hilda could see shelf upon shelf of exquisitely bound books. An ornate black marble clock stood on a slim oblong table, flanked by delicate vases and pottery. The highly polished floor was covered by a large oriental rug. Hilda had never seen such opulence. ‘And above us, forty bedrooms and Lord William’s suites to be catered for,’ ended Mrs Burns sharply.