Break of Dawn

by Rita Bradshaw

  ‘Kitty?’

  ‘Aye, me lamb?’

  ‘Do you think my mother can see me? From heaven, I mean?’

  Kitty stopped what she was doing and stared down into the earnest little face. ‘Whatever’s brought that into your head?’ she said softly. ‘Of course your mam can see you, hinny. She watches over you every day, I’ll be bound.’

  Sophy nodded but without conviction. ‘Uncle Jeremiah said in his sermon last week that there’s a divide between heaven and earth like there is between heaven and hell, and that when you’re in heaven you don’t care about earth any more and you just praise God all the time.’

  ‘Did he?’ Kitty had to confess she turned off once the master got on his bandwagon in the pulpit.

  ‘He said God and the angels can see us but not real people who have died. They’re not allowed.’

  ‘Not allowed my backside.’ Kitty didn’t have a clue one way or the other, but her voice was adamant. ‘Your mam can see you, hinny, an’ don’t let anyone tell you different. I’d stake my life on it. All right?’

  Sophy gave a small smile. ‘All right.’

  ‘An’ preachers an’ suchlike, even ones like your uncle, they don’t know everything,’ Kitty added, hoping she wasn’t perjuring her own soul. ‘Their own take on things comes into it and the master, well, he isn’t the most merry of men, now is he? If there’s a black way to look at something, he’ll find it, but it don’t necessarily mean it’s right.’

  Sophy took a few moments to consider this. She hadn’t looked at it like that before. Her expression lightened and now her voice carried more confidence when she said, ‘I think my mother can see me. Heaven is somewhere where all your wishes come true and she would want to see me if she could, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Aye, for sure, hinny.’

  Two small slender arms went round her middle and Kitty found herself hugged briefly before Sophy disappeared off back to the scullery. Kitty stared after the child for a moment before getting back to the salmon. Whatever next? she thought with wry humour. You never knew what that little ’un was going to come out with. Bright as a button she was. Fancy her listening to the master’s sermon like that when most of his parishioners, including herself, couldn’t have repeated a word the minute they’d left the church.

  She shook her head, dropping the filleted fish into a dish where it would poach in a drop of milk with a dash of vinegar before being flaked.

  She was a thinker, was little Sophy, and knowing with it. That didn’t bode well for any woman in what was definitely a man’s world, but Sophy’s position was worse than most. She was between two worlds, neither gentry nor servant, and likely to remain there until she was wed. And what sort of husband would the master and mistress choose for the lass? Likely some dusty old widower who would incarcerate her in a life of toil bringing up children who were not her own, or some psalm-singing hypocrite like the master, who preached one thing and did another.

  Eeh, where had that last thought come from? Kitty shook her head again, but this time at herself. A few minutes with the bairn and she was thinking all sorts of things. But it was true. In spite of how he was, she had respected the master at one time, him being a man of the cloth an’ all, but since the child had been born she had seen another side to his pious nature that couldn’t be ignored. He knew full well how his lady wife treated the bairn, yet he let her get on with it – and why? Because he’d disapproved of Sophy’s mam marrying a Frenchman. Now she wasn’t learned like the master, and she dare say he’d forgotten more about the Good Book than she’d ever know, but to hold a grudge all these years? It wasn’t right. Whatever way you looked at it, it wasn’t right. One day, chickens would come home to roost and then the roof would go off this house – she could see it coming. Aye, the older the bairn got, the more she could see it coming.

  Settling her chin into the ample folds of her neck, Kitty continued with her preparations, not dreaming that that day was closer than she had imagined.

  The dinner party had gone off splendidly. Mary had been trained by her mother in the arts of being a good hostess and it was something she excelled in and thoroughly enjoyed. The other three couples – Dr Lawrence and his wife, Mr Longhurst, a local magistrate, and Mrs Longhurst, and the Williamsons – he was standing for Parliament this year and Mrs Williamson was involved in a string of good works – knew each other very well and the conversation at the dinner table had been merry. Jeremiah had roused himself to join in the general joviality, even making the odd quip or two, which was unusual.

  Bridget had sensed the convivial atmosphere and seen how her mistress was basking in her success when silently serving the various courses, all of which boded well for the next little while. When one of the mistress’s social functions didn’t pass as smoothly as Mary would have liked, the whole household, but in particular Sophy, suffered the brunt of her frustration for days.

  By the time the Williamsons’ carriage and pair and Dr Lawrence’s neat little pony and trap had been brought round to the front of the house from the stables by Patrick, it was clear that several members of the party were a little intoxicated. The women were giggling and fussing as Bridget helped them on with their coats and furs, and the men’s voices were over-hearty. The Williamsons and the Longhursts were travelling together, and Mary and Jeremiah walked the three couples across the drive to the waiting conveyances, but Dr Lawrence, who was slightly behind the others, stopped midway and came back to Bridget, who was standing in the doorway in case she was needed.

  ‘I forgot to give this to your mistress.’ He handed her a small slim package. ‘It’s just a little thing for the child, Sophy, but I wouldn’t like her to think I’ve forgotten her this year. She always writes such a formal little note of thanks. We don’t buy for the others’ children’ – he gestured with his head towards the group talking by the carriages – ‘so one has to be discreet, but as Sophy is our god-daughter . . .’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Bridget dipped her knee as she took the gift and slipped it in her apron pocket, her mind racing as Dr Lawrence joined the others. Sophy had never received a present from Dr Lawrence and his wife and had certainly never written to thank them, so that meant . . . How could she? How could the mistress be so mean? To withhold the doctor’s presents like that, it was stealing, that’s what it was. Did the master know? And him a clergyman. But she wouldn’t put anything past the pair of them where that bairn was concerned, so why was she surprised? And even when Sophy was occasionally summoned to the drawing room with Patience when visitors arrived, ost ensibly to keep up the pretence that she was treated as a member of the family, she had noticed before that this never happened if the guest was Dr Lawrence. And now she knew why. He might mention something.

  The carriage was drawing away, the trap following, and as a few desultory snowflakes drifted down in the bitterly cold night, Mary and Jeremiah walked towards the house. Bridget made up her mind quickly. She wouldn’t say a word about the present, not until she’d given it to Sophy anyway, and then she would mention it casually when she was serving the mistress’s elevenses in the morning room tomorrow. No doubt she would get into trouble, but that didn’t matter. She could make out that the doctor had given her the gift when she was busy with her duties, and she’d put it in her pocket and forgotten all about it till morning when she’d found it and given it to the bairn.

  Mary and Jeremiah walked past her without acknowledging her presence, their personas having changed radically now there was no longer any need to keep up the pretence of being a happily married couple. However, Mary did manage a tight smile as she paused at the foot of the staircase to say, ‘Tell Cook the meal was most satisfactory, Bridget.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘The ladies on my committee for the Sunday School Christmas party will be meeting here at ten-thirty tomorrow morning. Please see to it refreshments are served promptly at ten forty-five.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘An
d the young masters will be home for the Christmas holidays in five days’ time. You may start airing their bedding tomorrow morning and lighting a fire in their rooms.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘That is all. Once you have put the drawing room to rights, you may retire.’

  Considering it was nearly midnight, she should think so an’ all, Bridget thought, her voice without expression as she said again, ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Nevertheless, as she stacked the coffee tray, plumped the cushions on the sofas and tidied up crumbs of shortcake from the carpet with a little dustpan and brush, the small, gaily-wrapped parcel in her pocket banished any tiredness. She could just imagine Sophy’s face tomorrow morning when she had a present from the doctor. And there were the books she and her mam and da had bought the bairn too. The old picture book was falling apart, Sophy had looked at it so much, besides which the lass hadn’t been reading so well then. She hadn’t known which book to choose – Hans Christian Andersen’s Fairy Tales or Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, when she had nipped into the little toy shop close to the dairy in Southwick Road. Conscious of the list of shopping in her pocket from the mistress, she had bought them both and she didn’t regret it. The bairn had little enough.

  She would have dearly loved to buy Sophy one of the richly dressed dolls she had seen, their porcelain faces and long hair curled in ringlets similar to those in Miss Patience’s room, or maybe one of the magic lanterns which could project hand-coloured scenes on slides, but both would have been difficult to conceal. The books would give her the greatest pleasure. She nodded to the thought. And no doubt before too long she would know the stories off by heart.

  Bridget’s parents had already retired to their room when she finally finished in the drawing room and walked through to the kitchen. The room was in semi-darkness. Kitty had extinguished the oil lamp but left two candles at either end of the kitchen table, and by their flickering light Bridget gazed down at the child sleeping under her mound of blankets. Sophy was so finely boned and slender she often appeared small for her age but in fact this wasn’t so.

  Crouching down beside the pallet bed, Bridget smoothed a stray silky curl from the velvety forehead. Long thick lashes rested on milky white skin and the rosebud lips were slightly apart. The child was so lovely, the ever-present worry Bridget felt about Sophy’s future rose to the fore once more. She was going to be a beautiful young woman in a few years, and a girl as enchanting as Sophy needed a father’s protection, or at the very least a guardian’s covering between her and a world full of men.

  And then Bridget’s common sense intervened. The bairn was only ten years old. There would be more than enough time to worry about such things in the future, but for now she was safe enough.

  Standing upright, Bridget eased her aching back, the tiredness she had felt earlier suddenly overwhelming. She had been on her feet since five o’clock, not an abnormal occurrence, but tonight she felt every one of her thirty-five years and a good few more besides. She needed her bed. It had been three years after Sophy’s birth before she had felt able to return to her room, and even now she occasionally felt uneasy about leaving the child sleeping in the kitchen, but this night she didn’t even bother to undress before falling into bed, and was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

  Chapter 5

  When Sophy opened her eyes the next morning, her first thought was of her birthday, and the second that she still felt full from the forbidden delicacies Kitty had slipped her way the previous evening. Kitty had given her a little bit of most of the dishes, but had made her a whole pear smothered in ginger sauce all to herself, the taste of which still lingered on her tongue.

  Sophy glanced across the kitchen to where Bridget was busy persuading the range fire into a cheerful blaze. Sitting up, she rubbed her eyes. ‘It’s my birthday. I’m ten years old.’

  ‘That you are, my pet.’ Bridget smiled at her. ‘Why don’t you hurry up and get dressed, and then you can lay the table in here while I see to the fires in the house.’

  Sophy nodded, scrambling out of bed. She liked the beginning of each day more than anything. The family were still asleep when she and Bridget and Kitty and Patrick ate their breakfast at the kitchen table, and it was always quiet and peaceful. She had never told a living soul – not even Bridget from whom she normally had no secrets – but she always pretended each morning that Bridget was her mother, and Kitty and Patrick her grandparents, and that they were a proper family eating together. To have said it out loud would somehow be a betrayal of her real mother, but just thinking it was all right.

  By the time Kitty and Patrick rose at half-past six, the fires in the drawing room, morning room and dining room had been lit, and the first of the two pans of porridge which Kitty always left soaking overnight was simmering on the hob. Once they had eaten, Kitty would begin to prepare the family’s breakfast which was served in the dining room at eight-thirty sharp after the whole household had met for morning prayers in the drawing room.

  Porridge was always followed by a full English breakfast for the family. It had been something Mary had been used to when she lived with her parents and had continued into her marriage. Along with freshly baked breakfast rolls accompanied by various preserves, dishes of all kinds were sent up to the dining room: grilled bacon and broiled kidneys, boiled eggs – cooked for exactly four minutes by the kitchen clock – mushrooms from Patrick’s dark little forcing house behind the south wall of the garden, and a hash of potatoes cooked the night before, to which onion and seasoning was added before Kitty shaped the end result into small squares and warmed them on the griddle. Occasionally, kromeskies – a kind of fritter – were also sent up to the dining room. When the boys were home, the dishes invariably returned to the kitchen empty. Other times, if anything was left, Kitty was expected to use it for the servants’, and Sophy’s, lunch.

  Mary had a bee in her bonnet that the breakfast beverage had to be cocoa. Her father had always insisted that because cocoa contained cocoa-butter and starch, it would make up for the waste which had occurred during the fast of the preceding night, and would also maintain the body during the day. Tea was drunk at breakfast only when the bishop was a guest, since he had a dislike of cocoa.

  Another of Mary’s pet hates was pre-packed coffee. Although tradesmen were forbidden by law to adulterate coffee with chicory, Mary didn’t trust them, therefore she insisted that the family’s coffee was roasted and ground in the kitchen. Every three of four days, Kitty would take half a pound of the raw coffee berries, put them in a clean frying pan with a little fresh butter and stir them round and round until the whole was done, before grinding them immediately. Kitty often complained to herself during this process, muttering that the freshly packed coffee was just as good and she had enough to do as it was, but Sophy loved the mornings when the roasting coffee beans filled the kitchen with their luscious aroma.

  Porridge, followed by thick wedges of Bridget’s crusty bread spread with butter and two rashes of bacon apiece was the se rvants’ breakfast as decreed by the mistress of the house. However, Kitty saw to it that a boiled egg – two for Patrick – along with several of the potato hashes, was added, having little time for what she called ‘the mistress’s parnicketies’.

  It was one of Sophy’s jobs to wash and prepare the vegetables for the whole household’s meals each morning before the servants’ breakfast. Kitty left the required amount in the scullery’s huge square sink every evening before she retired, and Sophy always got to work as soon as she was up. She had to stand on an orange box to reach the sink, and however warm the kitchen was, the scullery was always freezing and gloomy, but with Bridget bustling about seeing to her various tasks the time passed quickly enough. Today though, Sophy had had to clean and scour a couple of pans and kitchen utensils left over from the dinner party the previous night before she could start on the vegetables. As far as Mary was concerned, it was one of Sophy’s many duties to scrub all the ste
wpans, saucepans, sauté pans, frying pans and other kitchen equipment each day, but between them Bridget and Kitty saw to it that the majority of this was taken off Sophy’s small shoulders. If the child had been forced to carry out all of Mary’s orders, it was doubtful if she would have got to bed each night before the early hours of morning.

  Sophy had just finished the last of the vegetables when Kitty called her through to the kitchen for breakfast, and when she took her place at the table there were two packages by her bowl of porridge, a slim long one wrapped in bright paper and another bulkier one in brown paper tied with string. She glanced at Bridget whose soft brown eyes were waiting for her. ‘Happy birthday, hinny.’ And then, as Sophy leaped up and hugged her, planting a kiss on her cheek, before doing the same to a smiling Kitty and Patrick, Bridget added, ‘Now afore you open ’em, the smaller one is from the doctor, Dr Lawrence.’

  ‘Dr Lawrence?’ Sophy returned to her seat, her eyes wide, touching the bright paper as though it was going to bite her. ‘Why would Dr Lawrence buy me a birthday present?’

  After talking the matter through with her mother in hushed whispers while Sophy finished the last of the vegetables, Bridget had decided to say nothing of the past gifts, feeling it would somehow take the shine off the present. Now she cleared her throat before saying, ‘I suppose it’s because you’re ten and that’s quite a landmark, and you are his god-daughter, after all.’

  Sophy stared at Bridget in amazement. It was the first time she knew of this. ‘I am?’

  ‘Aye, you are. When you were a little babbie you were christened by your uncle, and Dr Lawrence and Mrs Lawrence were asked to be your godparents.’