The Kitchen Maid

by Val Wood

  The sun had gone down when he returned, and after having some supper he changed into his oldest clothes and went out again. She watched him as, with a spade over his shoulder, he went out of the garden and along the track. Then she lost sight of him, so she went upstairs into the room where Agnes was lying, and looked out of the window. ‘There he is, Aunt Agnes,’ she said softly. ‘He’s preparing a place where he’ll always be able to see you.’

  Stephen had reached a high point in the meadow where the ground levelled out into a flat area. It was here that he put his spade to the earth, taking off the top sods of grass and placing them to one side. Then he started to dig. Jenny turned away. What love he has for her. She held back her tears as she felt a profound sorrow that her love for Christy had been snatched away. Then she heard the baby Christina crying. She took a deep, deep breath. But I have my child. That is love enough.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  There were just three of them at the burial, four including the baby Christina who slept in Jenny’s arms. Dr Hill said a few comforting words, then the two men lowered the plain wooden casket into the grave. Jenny and the doctor threw in a handful of soil and Stephen picked up his spade and began to fill up the deep space.

  ‘A cup of tea, I think, don’t you, Jenny?’ the doctor said and they turned away down the hill, leaving Stephen alone in his task.

  Jenny had prepared a plate of bread and butter and cold chicken and brought out a fruit cake, which she had made the day before. ‘Delicious,’ the doctor proclaimed. ‘You’ve got a good hand for baking!’

  ‘Never baked before I came here, sir,’ she said. ‘Agnes showed me how.’

  ‘Then she’s left you a fine legacy.’ Dr Hill took another slice. ‘If you feed Stephen as well as this he won’t want you to leave.’

  ‘He’s not said yet whether he wants me to stay, Dr Hill,’ Jenny said anxiously. ‘And I’ve not liked to ask him. Would it be proper, do you think, if I do stay?’

  The doctor raised his eyebrows. ‘Depends whose opinion you care about. Your parents might not be pleased, but then, you are already an unmarried mother. What do they say about that?’

  ‘I’ve not written to tell them that I’ve got a daughter, though my mother knew I was expecting.’ Jenny shook her head. ‘She wasn’t bothered about knowing about the birth, but she asked me to write and tell her about Agnes.’

  ‘Strange, isn’t it, that some people like to know about the close of a chapter, but not about the beginning of one? I’d say that if she is so uninterested, don’t bother to say anything.’ He held out his cup for more tea. ‘There is no-one else who needs to know. Stephen and Agnes lived quiet lives with few visitors, just the itinerant workers and they don’t count.’

  ‘Who don’t count?’ Stephen came into the room in his stockinged feet, having left his muddy boots at the door.

  ‘The itinerant workers when they come to help with haymaking,’ Dr Hill said, looking at him over his cup.

  ‘They do count. I couldn’t manage without them.’ Stephen flopped into a chair and Jenny got up to make another brewing of tea.

  ‘No. What I was saying’, explained the doctor, ‘was that it doesn’t matter to them or to anyone else that Jenny is living here as your housekeeper, now that Agnes is no longer here,’ he added.

  ‘What do you mean? Of course it doesn’t matter. Why should it?’ Stephen’s voice rose tensely. ‘It’s nothing to do with anyone else what I do. It never has been and it never will be.’ He took a cup of tea from Jenny. ‘I live as I please and Jenny should do the same.’ He looked across at her. ‘So if you want to stay, that’s fine by me. I’d expect you to do your share of the work, of course. You’ve seen what there is to do.’ He shrugged and added brusquely, ‘But if you’re uncomfortable with the situation and would rather leave, that’s up to you.’

  ‘I’d like to stay, please,’ Jenny said in a small voice. ‘I’ve nowhere else to go.’

  Stephen nodded. ‘I can’t pay you. You realize that? You can keep the money from the eggs if you sell any; they’ll sometimes buy them down in Etton if you want to take them.’

  The baby started to whimper from her drawer in the corner and Stephen, being nearer, got up and went to her. He bent down and to Jenny’s surprise he picked up the baby and put her close to his cheek. ‘Little angel,’ he said softly and rocked her gently in the crook of his arm. ‘Do you know what I’m going to do next?’ He continued speaking to the child. ‘I’m going to make a fine crib for you to sleep in instead of this old drawer, and your mama can sew you some fine linen sheets and proper baby gowns.’

  Dr Hill smiled reassuringly at Jenny, and stood up to go. ‘I’ll leave you to it then, old fellow.’ He offered his hand to Stephen, who hitched the baby into his other arm, took hold of his hand and shook it firmly.

  ‘Thank you, George,’ he said quietly. ‘For all you have done for us, especially for Agnes. It has been appreciated, as you know.’ He blinked rapidly. ‘Your help and friendship over the years, when all others failed, has meant everything to me.’

  George Hill patted him on the shoulder. ‘Reciprocated, dear fellow,’ he said gruffly. ‘And it won’t end here. We shall meet again soon.’

  He turned to Jenny. ‘Goodbye, Jenny. Good luck in your new position as housekeeper and cook! What was your work before, by the way?’

  Jenny paused for a moment, lost in thought as she pondered on her elevated role. ‘Kitchen maid,’ she murmured vaguely. ‘I was Jenny kitchen-maid.’

  Stephen started work on the crib, but first he opened a chest of drawers in his bedroom, revealing crisp white linen, cotton and flannel which smelled of lavender. ‘Use it,’ he said briskly to Jenny. ‘Agnes bought it years ago from the packman when – when she thought we would have children.’

  Well, another thing that Miss Smithers taught me, as well as to read and write, was how to turn a good hem, Jenny thought as she sat of an evening stitching small flannel gowns and hemming cot sheets. The child, between her birth and Agnes’s death, had been wrapped in a cotton sheet and shawl with a triangle of old towel for a napkin.

  Christina was a small baby with straight dark hair. Like mine, Jenny mused, but will she look like an Ingram when she’s grown or will she look like a Graham? She has a touch of my da in her, I think.

  A week after giving birth, Jenny was feeding the hens and collecting eggs, and a week after that was helping Stephen to milk the cow twice a day, though he insisted that she should rest for an hour after their midday meal. ‘You’ll lose your milk if you get overtired,’ he said. ‘I can manage for the time being, but I’ll need you to help with the lambing and the farrowing.’ He gave a rare smile. ‘But you’ll know all about that now!’

  There had been some lambs born during the harsh days of January and February but the second lambing season had now started and the pig was due to farrow. ‘You’ll have to show me,’ she said, and then suddenly blushed. ‘I mean – it’s not ’same as having a baby yourself.’

  ‘Almost,’ he said. ‘But not quite. You won’t have to do anything, just check on the sow every couple of hours and make sure she doesn’t lie on them.’

  The ewes had been brought down into the barn. Some had started to lamb, and because the weather was cold the lambs had to be put to their mothers’ milk as soon as they were on their feet. Jenny had dashed, in between feeding Christina, checking the sow, feeding the hens and preparing a meal, to take Stephen a hot drink, a slice of pie and a chunk of fruit cake. I’m a town girl, she thought, as for the third time that morning she had trekked across to the small meadow and the pigpen to check on the sow. I never in my life imagined I would be tramping in mud and pig dung.

  She heard Stephen shouting to her from the barn, waving his arm for her to come. ‘I’ve lost one of the ewes,’ he called. ‘And the others won’t take to her lamb.’ He picked up the lamb and put it into her arms. ‘Take it home and feed it with the bottle or we’ll lose that as well. Keep it warm.’

 
Jenny scurried back and as she approached the house door could hear Christina crying. ‘You’re going to have to wait, my darling,’ she called to her. ‘I know you’re not as cold and hungry as this little creature.’ She looked down at the baby, cosy in her new cot, and gently touched her cheek. Christina moved her head towards her, gave a hiccup and stopped crying. ‘Too much rich food,’ Jenny murmured, and turned her attention to feeding the lamb.

  Half an hour later she went again to the pigpen and found that the sow had a litter of six piglets. Four were snuffling at her teats, but two were lying quite still. ‘Oh no! Are they dead?’ Jenny gingerly touched one. It was still very slightly warm, as was the other. She picked them both up and wrapping them in her apron scurried back to the house. She placed them in front of the fire, whilst she poured warm water from the kettle into a bowl and then put the piglets into it. Ten minutes later they were again in front of the fire and starting to snuffle and squeal and the lamb was curiously nosing them.

  When Stephen arrived back at the house late for his midday meal, he found Jenny sitting in a chair with Christina at her breast, the lamb trapped between her knees whilst she fed it with a feeding bottle, and two piglets squealing at her feet.

  His look was one of pure amazement, and then he started to laugh. ‘What on earth –’

  She grinned triumphantly and nodded her head towards the piglets. ‘Poached pig,’ she said. ‘They were nearly dead, so I put them in hot water to see if they would revive. And they did! I fed them with milk from the bottle too. I hope I did right?’

  He took the lamb and the bottle from her and sitting down opposite her took over the feeding. ‘You’ve done wonderfully well, Jenny,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m proud of you.’

  This unusual praise took her by surprise and she felt tears spring to her eyes. ‘I only did what I thought was sensible,’ she murmured.

  He gazed at her for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Keep them warm and well fed. Just as you do with a baby.’

  ‘Mr Laslett and I are getting along very well,’ Jenny wrote. ‘Though there is so much to do that we have barely time to talk. I’m very tired by the evening, so much so that when we’ve finished supper and I’ve shut up the hens and given Christina her feed, I’m almost too weary to climb the stairs to bed. I fell asleep in the chair one night as I was feeding her and when I woke, found Mr Laslett watching me. I realized that I was sitting in Agnes’s chair and felt such remorse, for he must have been thinking of her, and how she used to sit across from him, and how much they wanted children of their own. He took Christina from me when she had finished, and patted her back to bring up her wind, and I thought what a good father he would have made. Few men would have known to do that, since child rearing is generally left to the women, but perhaps it’s because he’s a farmer and cares for his animals. I moved the chair to a different place the next morning.’

  By June the air was filled with the smells of summer. The honeysuckle and roses were in bloom and the perfume so heavy and sweet that Jenny felt she could eat it. The hedgerows were filled with twittering, nesting birds and in the little orchard the hens and cockerel clucked and crowed and the pig scratched beneath the apple trees. Foxgloves hid their bright colours in shady places and buttercups glowed like golden stars at dusk.

  Jenny was rolling pastry for a rabbit pie. The door was wide open as the day was warm and the fire built up with wood for the oven to get hot for the baking. Christina was in her cot outside the door where Jenny, when she looked up, could see her toes and plump little legs kicking. She put the rabbit pieces into a pie dish and placed the pastry over it, crimping the edges with a fork as she had seen the Ingrams’ cook do, then looked up as she heard an unfamiliar sound.

  The rattle of wheels and clop of horses’ hooves made her wipe her hands on a cloth and go to the door. A chaise was pulling up at the gate. The driver jumped down and opened the carriage door to help a young woman out. They’re lost, Jenny thought. They’ve missed their way somehow. She waited as the woman, dressed in a white muslin gown and pink bonnet, opened the gate and proceeded down the path towards her.

  She stopped abruptly in front of Jenny and looked her up and down. ‘This is Mr St John Laslett’s house, is it not?’ Her tone was high and haughty. ‘I believe my directions are correct?’

  ‘Yes, miss. This is Mr Laslett’s house.’ Jenny gazed back at her. ‘He’s not here just now. He’s haymaking.’

  ‘Oh!’ The young woman looked down her nose. ‘And you are?’

  Jenny bridled at her arrogant manner. I don’t have to tell her, she thought. Stephen said it doesn’t matter about other people. I can live as I please, as he does. ‘Who are you, miss?’ she asked. ‘Is Mr Laslett expecting you?’ She remembered that when she worked for Mr Ingram, he would never see anyone without an appointment.

  The visitor looked astonished, then with a sudden gasp put her hand to her mouth. ‘You’re not – are you – Agnes?’

  ‘No!’ Stephen came from round the back of the house. He had a hayfork in his hand and a battered felt hat on his head. ‘She’s not! What are you doing here, Bella?’

  ‘That isn’t a very warm greeting for your sister, Stephen,’ she said.

  ‘What do you expect? I give what I receive, and I’ve received nothing from you. Any of you.’ Stephen stared grimly at his sister and Jenny looked for a likeness between them and found none. This young woman was slight and fair with a pettishness on her pretty face.

  ‘It’s not easy with Father,’ she began. ‘Are you going to ask me in?’

  ‘I don’t know! Are we going to ask her in, Jenny? This is Arabella, by the way,’ he remarked casually. ‘The youngest of my four sisters.’

  ‘Please come in, Miss Laslett,’ Jenny said, moving the cot to one side to make room for the visitor’s hooped gown.

  ‘St John Laslett,’ she corrected her and stared down at Christina. ‘Whose child is this?’

  ‘Mine,’ Jenny said fiercely and stood aside to let her enter. She saw Bella’s questioning glance at her brother, but Stephen’s face was impassive and he remained silent as he led her into the house.

  ‘Oh, this is so sweet, Stephen,’ Arabella enthused as she looked around the room. ‘How very cosy!’

  Jenny suddenly realized that the pie hadn’t been put in the oven and dashed to retrieve it. ‘Sorry, Mr Laslett,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think you’d be down yet.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have been.’ He wiped his sweating brow with the back of his hand. ‘I saw the carriage.’

  Arabella glanced curiously from one to another. ‘Erm – I was expecting to see Agnes.’

  ‘Were you? Well you’re too late!’ Stephen’s voice was harsh and intimidating. ‘You’re all too late if you want to make amends. Agnes is dead!’

  His sister drew in a breath. ‘I’m – I’m so sorry.’ She sat down uninvited and her skirt billowed around her. ‘I – I didn’t know.’

  ‘How could you know? We might both have been dead for all any of you knew – or cared!’

  Her mouth trembled at her brother’s anger. ‘But that’s why I came,’ she whimpered. ‘Papa doesn’t know I’m here! We’re not supposed to even mention your name. He’s so difficult, Stephen,’ she implored. ‘I came to ask you – well, if you would ever reconsider coming home?’

  ‘With or without Agnes?’ Stephen asked cynically.

  She looked down, unable to meet his eyes. ‘You know you couldn’t have come with her.’

  ‘And you expected me to come without her?’ he said bitterly. ‘Of course I wouldn’t have come!’

  ‘But now?’ Arabella glanced at Jenny who was clearing up the table from the baking and trying not to listen to the conversation. ‘Is there any reason why you can’t come now?’

  Christina gave a sudden yell and they all looked towards the door. Stephen glanced down at his sister, then turned and went outside. He came back carrying Christina who grabbed at his hat. He took her hand and blew raspberries into it. �
�Yes, there is a reason why I can’t come,’ he said tersely. ‘A very good reason.’

  Jenny stopped what she was doing and stood looking at him, then she shifted her gaze to his sister who was flushed with embarrassment.

  ‘I see.’ Arabella rose to her feet. ‘I beg your pardon.’ She put her pert nose in the air. ‘Then I won’t bother you again.’

  Stephen grimaced. ‘For heaven’s sake, Bella. Sit down! Make her a cup of tea, will you, Jenny?’ He patted the baby on her back and took her outside again to her cot. When he returned, he stood staring down at his sister. ‘Agnes is buried on the hillside,’ he said softly. ‘She’s facing the home we made together. Do you think I could leave her here alone and go back to that loveless house of my father’s?’

  Arabella fished for a handkerchief and delicately blew her nose. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I know how much you must have loved her.’

  ‘You don’t know.’ His voice was low and bitter. ‘You can’t possibly know, because you haven’t experienced love.’

  Jenny poured boiling water onto the tea leaves and took cups and saucers from the cupboard. But I know, she thought. Stephen and I understand what real love is. That’s why we are getting along so well together.

  ‘Well, that’s just it, isn’t it?’ Arabella said petulantly. ‘I have no chance of knowing, because Papa will expect me to stay and look after him, and by the time he is dead, I shall be too old. I’m too old now,’ she wailed. ‘I’m twenty-four and an old maid!’

  ‘Excuse me, miss.’ Jenny handed her a cup of tea. ‘If you don’t mind me interrupting, how would it help if Mr Laslett went home?’

  Arabella recoiled as if someone had put something nasty in front of her, but Stephen asked mockingly, ‘Yes, how would it? Tell us!’

  ‘Well, because.’ She sniffled. ‘You would be the head of the household and gentlemen could call on me. Papa won’t allow it. He says I’m all right as I am, at home with him!’