by Celina Grace
“I suppose so.” I thought for a moment of the manor; its golden, treacherous surface, the darkness of the pine forest encircling it. I suppressed a shiver.
“Well, I’m off to bed.” Verity flapped a hand at me in a goodbye and sloped off, shutting the door behind her. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
I continued to get ready for bed. I thought, as I always did, of sitting down and writing something. But, as always, I was too tired. Instead I climbed into the strange bed, clicked off my little bedside light and slid down under the blankets and into sleep.
Chapter Three
The next morning, I was very glad that I’d prepared so thoroughly the night before. Ethel, like a good girl, had come down before me to get the range going, but as she’d had to dash off to light the fires in all the bedrooms, the stove wasn’t nearly as hot as I needed it to be. I thanked my lucky stars that there was a gas stove to cook on as well. At least breakfast was one of the easier meals of the day to prepare.
I helped Ethel carry the dishes up to the dining room. Of course, I would have helped anyway, as there was only the two of us available to wait at the table, but I wanted to have a look at the other members of the household I hadn’t already met. And, if I were honest, I truly wanted to see Dorothy, to see if she was well. Privileged, idle and rich she might have been, but our mistress was also kind and steadfast in loyalty to her servants. I didn’t exactly admire her, but I liked her.
True to form, as soon as Dorothy spotted me she smiled and said, “Hullo Joan. How are you settling in?”
I smiled back and bobbed a curtsey, having placed the covered silver tray of bacon on the sideboard. “I’m very well, Madam. I hope that everything is satisfactory.”
“I’m sure it will be.” Dorothy looked over at Mrs Ashford, who sat at the head of the table. She appeared even tinier and more gnarled than she had seemed the night before. Her sparse white hair gleamed under the light from the chandelier.
“Seems somewhat extravagant to me,” Mrs Ashford said tartly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with a good, old-fashioned plate of porridge.”
My heart sank. Had I fallen at the first hurdle?
“I’m sorry, Madam,” I faltered. “I was following Mrs Weston’s orders—” I stopped abruptly, not wanting to sound as though I were making excuses or trying to get the housekeeper into trouble.
“Oh, get along with you, Margaret,” said Dorothy, grinning. Mrs Ashford looked affronted at first and then her wizened face collapsed into a mass of wrinkles as she chuckled. Dorothy looked at me. “Don’t mind her, Joan, she’s nothing but an old curmudgeon.”
Astounded at Dorothy’s forthrightness, I could do nothing but give a confused bob of the head. Mrs Ashford looked at Dorothy with a kind of wry fondness, and I wondered at the relationship between the two of them. I hadn’t realised they were on terms of such familiarity.
Arabella Ashford said nothing during the exchange, merely keeping her eyes on her meal and continuing to fork food into her mouth. Her plate was piled high with eggs, toast, the bony remnants of a kipper, mushrooms and two glistening sausages. It was a wonder she was as slim as she was. She didn’t look particularly well this morning, I noted, although she had the kind of complexion that never really looked at its best. I remembered the row I’d overheard between her and her mother. I could still hear that fine needle of cruelty in Mrs Ashford’s voice, when she’d laughed about something Arabella had said. I also remembered that dull note in Arabella’s voice when she’d responded, belying the violence of her words. I hate you.
I hastily recalled myself to the present. The fourth person at the table had to be Constance Bartleby. She wasn’t eating but looked from Dorothy to Mrs Ashford, her gaze flicking from one face to the other. She was a stately looking woman, middle-aged but still handsome, with elaborately dressed dark hair and a high colour in her cheeks. She looked faintly foreign. I’d finally got her place in the family worked out, after consulting Verity this morning. She had been the second wife of Mrs Ashford’s late brother. As I looked at her, she caught my eye and I dropped my gaze hastily.
“Thank you, girls. You may go.” Mrs Ashford dismissed us. As I was at the door, my hand on the doorknob, her imperious voice stopped me. “Oh, Joan. My nephew, Mr Michael Harrison, will be joining us for dinner tonight. He’ll be bringing a university companion of his. I’m sure Mrs Weston has the situation under control, but of course I’m relying on you to ensure that we have a suitable meal.”
“Yes m’lady—” I stopped myself. “Yes, Mrs Ashford. I took the liberty of ordering a joint of beef this morning, which I hope will be sufficient.”
“Oh, good. That sounds eminently suitable. Young men do have such prodigious appetites, don’t they? Thank you, my dear.” She waved me away with a gnarled hand and I bobbed yet another curtsey and scurried for the door. I sent Verity up a silent prayer of thanks as I made my way down to the kitchen.
After breakfast, there was the washing up to do and a simple luncheon to plan; I settled on soup and a Dover Sole. The servants, here as everywhere, ate far more simply – in this case, breakfast leftovers and extra bread and butter. Throughout the morning, I took delivery of the food for the day, including an icy bucket of fish from the fishmonger and the coveted joint of beef from the butcher. It looked a good cut and I was glad. Roast beef was one of the simplest dishes to prepare for dinner – the trickiest part was getting the timings of all the side dishes right. I went through the pantry and the larder, looking out potatoes, carrots, swedes and onions. The starter could be something light – a soup, perhaps?
I didn’t see Verity all morning but it was not unusual, certainly upon arrival in a new place. She would have been kept busy with unpacking Dorothy’s wardrobe; hanging up suits, sorting out gloves and hats and stoles, ensuring the jewellery was safely put away. I found myself wondering exactly what it was that Dorothy would do here. She liked parties and the theatre, jazz clubs and all the types of things that couldn’t be found in a small country town. But, I supposed, that was the point of her coming away from London; she had to remove herself from the temptations of the high life. Perhaps she would hunt? But then it wasn’t the season, was it? Perhaps she would take to drawing, or watercolours, or perhaps even good works in the parish. The last made me giggle at the thought of Dorothy, with her flapper bob and her cigarettes and her racy, expensive clothes, sitting opposite some poor old lady helping her wind her knitting. Or dishing up cabbage soup to the unfortunate in her diamonds and furs. Oh well, it wasn’t my concern.
It was about three o’clock that afternoon, and Ethel and I were just sitting down with a well-deserved cup of tea, when there was a rap at the back door. I looked up to see a young man framed in the pane of glass. He was standing in shadow and all I could see was the outline of his cap. Thinking it was another delivery boy, I heaved myself to my feet and yanked open the door.
“Yes?” I said, slightly grumpily.
“I say, are you the new cook?” His accent alerted me immediately to the fact that he was a gentleman. Appalled, I quickly straightened up and removed the frown from my face.
“Yes, sir?” I tried again, hoping he hadn’t heard the tone of my voice the first time. My confusion and embarrassment was increased when I realised how handsome he was.
“Hullo there. I’m Michael, Michael Harrison. I suppose the old lady told you to expect me?”
“Yes, sir.” I realised that there was another man standing a little way off. Also young, also handsome, but in more of a dark and brooding way, as opposed to Michael Harrison’s golden, boyish looks. He must be the university companion, Raymond Something.
Michael Harrison didn’t introduce him, which didn’t surprise me. Instead, he held out a brown paper bag to me.
“We’ve been foraging. Thought we’d help out with the old provisions, what? Aunt Margaret just love
s mushrooms.”
Trying to remain unflustered, I opened the bag. Inside was a tangled heap of what looked like wild fungi.
I looked up, into Michael Harrison’s cheerful face.
“I hope you don’t think it’s too much of a cheek,” he said.
“No, not at all, sir.” I was flustered, despite myself. Wild mushrooms were all very well, but did this young man actually know what he was picking? One had to be so careful with wild fungi… I couldn’t think of a polite way to ask him if he knew what he was doing. I made a split-second decision then that I would carefully check each individual mushroom myself and, if there was any doubt, I’d throw the lot away and use the cultivated ones the greengrocer had already sent over.
Michael Harrison seemed to read my mind. “You needn’t worry – I always bring something like this for old Aunt Margaret when I come to visit. You just ask her, that’ll take that worried look off your face.” He winked at me and I couldn’t stop myself smiling. He tipped his hat, turned away and hailed his companion. “Come on, Ray, old chap. Let’s get have a wash and a brush-up before tea.”
I bobbed an embarrassed curtsey as I watched them walk away. There was a rustle behind me and I turned to see Mrs Weston hurrying into the kitchen.
“Oh, Joan, we’ll be needing afternoon tea a little early today. Young Mr Harrison has just arrived with Mr Bentham, and Mrs Ashford wants some refreshments straight away—”
“I know.” I closed the back door and hurried towards the kettle. “Mr Harrison was just here. He gave me this.” I held out the paper bag for Mrs Weston to take and she must have seen the confusion in my face, because she chuckled.
“That’s Mr Harrison for you. He’s an outdoor type; loves his hunting and his shooting and grubbing about on the moors and in the forests.”
“He said he normally brings some mushrooms for his aunt. Wild ones, I mean.”
“Yes, he does if it’s the season. A little bit early, I would have said at the moment, but then he knows the best places to look.”
Somewhat relieved, I plonked the kettle on top of the range and began to measure tea into the pot. “I’ll cook them up for an entrée. I was wondering what to use—” I quickly shut my mouth, not wanting Mrs Weston to hear about any moment of indecision or weakness. “In a cream sauce, I thought.”
“That sounds suitable.” Mrs Weston sounded as affable as I had ever heard her. She seemed somewhat flurried but, at the same time, in a good humour. “When can I tell Madam to expect tea?”
I glanced up at the clock on the wall. “No more than five and twenty-past the hour, Mrs Weston. I’ll bring it up myself.”
“Thank you, Joan.” Before I could say any more, she hurried out of the kitchen.
Quickly, I made sandwiches – fish paste, jam and gentlemen’s relish – chopping off the crusts and setting them to one side for use later. I’d baked scones that morning, thankfully, and there was fresh cream from the milkman and what I assumed was last summer’s raspberry jam in the larder. That would do, surely? I fetched the big silver tray from the pantry and loaded it up with all the dishes and cups that would be needed. Before I hefted it up, I checked my appearance in the shiny copper bottom of a frying pan hanging on the rack. My hair was still fairly neat. I pinched my cheeks and nibbled at my lips to try and get a bit of colour in them. Then I whipped off my apron and picked up the heavy tray to take upstairs.
Chapter Four
It was the second time I’d been into the drawing room, which looked a great deal more cheerful this time. Spring sunshine poured in through the windows, dappling the carpet, and a nice little fire flickered in the grate. The whole family, plus their guests, were gathered there, and the room looked quite crowded.
Mrs Ashford reigned supreme, you could see that at a glance. I was reminded of Arabella’s accusation of last night, telling her mother she controlled people like puppets on a string. She sat in the same chair by the fire that I’d seen her in before when we’d been introduced. Michael and Mrs Bartleby sat by her and both, in their individual ways, danced attendance on her. In Michael’s case, it seemed to consist of telling her amusing stories from Cambridge, and in Mrs Bartleby’s, by listening closely to Mrs Ashford’s remarks, jumping up to refill her teacup as soon as she saw me enter the room, and by laughing at the slightest hint of humour in Mrs Ashford’s comments.
Arabella, Dorothy and Raymond sat on the opposite side of the room, talking nineteen to the dozen. Or rather, Arabella and Dorothy did and Raymond sat and listened. Even though it was only four o’clock, he was already drinking what looked like whisky from a cut-glass tumbler. Both he and Dorothy smoked. Arabella was sitting slightly too close to him to be natural, and it looked as though she would have liked to have sat even closer. I felt a pang of pity for her as I put the tray down on the tea table and began to rearrange the cups and plates. Her eyes were fixed on his face and she laughed too loudly and too long at whatever he said.
I wondered whether I should pour the tea and coffee. Sometimes the family did it themselves. When nobody except Mrs Bartleby approached me, I shrugged mentally and began to pour. At the trickle of tea into the china cups, Dorothy looked over.
“Hullo, Joan,” she said, coming up to take a cup. “How are you settling in?”
Bless Dorothy. I tried to sound cheerful and in control as I answered her. “Very well, thank you, Madam. Everything in the kitchen is very well appointed.”
“Oh, that’s good. Splendid,” Dorothy said vaguely. I grinned inwardly. Dorothy wouldn’t even know how to boil a kettle, let alone find her way about the kitchen. I watched as she drifted back off to join Raymond and Arabella.
I continued to quietly pour the tea and set out the food and plates whilst keeping an unobtrusive eye on everyone. As always, I was curious about their behaviour and their relationships with one another. Did Arabella have a true affection for her adopted mother? I wondered, remembering Mrs Ashford’s tart words to her in her bedroom and Arabella’s response. She told her mother she hated her. Did she? From Mrs Ashford’s wryly weary response – she hadn’t sounded upset – it sounded as if it had been something Arabella had said before. A verbal lashing out, or truly meant?
Mrs Bartleby laughed at something Mrs Ashford had said. I wondered a little about this sister-in-law of Mrs Ashford’s. It seemed as she’d lived here with Mrs Ashford for years, her husband having died over a decade ago. I wondered why she hadn’t married again. She was handsome enough, but there was something about her I didn’t much like, although I couldn’t exactly have said what. Perhaps it was her long white hands, and her rather hard face, and the sycophantic way in which she acted around Mrs Ashford. Of course, remembering what Verity had told me, she wasn’t wealthy. Quite the opposite. Oh, what business was it of mine? I was probably being very unfair. Not that she would have cared a hoot for my opinion of her, I reminded myself, arranging crab paste sandwiches attractively on a flowery china plate. Remember your place, Joan.
My eye fell on Michael Harrison. He was awfully handsome, although I’d never really gone for fair-haired men. I liked them dark and mysterious. Like Inspector Marks, whispered a little voice in my head, and I fought not to blush. Luckily, Dorothy kept coming up and ferrying teacups away with her, so that helped distract me from my bold thoughts. Michael was clearly a great favourite with his aunt, who laughed delightedly at something he said and whose grey eyes were fixed on his face, much as her adopted daughter’s gaze was glued to Raymond Bentham’s countenance.
I would have liked to have stayed there longer, discreetly eavesdropping on their conversations and watching the interaction between different people, but there was nothing more for me to do, and I needed to be getting on with the dinner. Reluctantly, I dropped a curtsey (which nobody saw anyway – nobody was taking the slightest notice of me) and left the room, closing the drawing room door behind me.
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br /> The rest of the afternoon flew by in a whirl of preparation for dinner, both for the family and the servants. I’d been worried about the cream of mushroom soup because that wasn’t a dish I was used to making, but it all turned out well in the end. The roast beef was cooked to a turn and I looked at it proudly as I covered it up with the domed silver cover and placed it on the tray for Ethel to carry up to the dining room.
Eventually the servants sat down to eat. It was so much smaller a gathering than I was used to, even smaller than usual as Andrew wasn’t eating with us tonight, having had to take the car to the garage in the village to have them change a tyre. Mrs Weston, Ethel, Verity and I sat and ate in a fairly companionable silence. It wasn’t that we weren’t allowed to talk, it was just I think we were all so tired after our long and busy day it took all our energy just to eat our food. Starting a new position was always exhausting. I looked forward to a few weeks’ time, when I would have settled in and wouldn’t have to fret myself into a frenzy over the smallest, simplest things.
Verity hung back to help me and Ethel with the washing up, for which I was grateful. Ethel, clearly in awe of Verity, kept casting wide-eyed, sideways glances at her, as if unable to believe that a lady’s maid would be getting her well-kept hands dirty. It made me smile despite my fatigue. With Verity’s help, we finished in double-quick time, and I sent Ethel up to her bedroom. I could see that she was drooping with tiredness so it was kind of me, but it also meant I could have a cup of tea and a natter with my friend in private.
With the glow of satisfaction in knowing everything was clean, dry and put away, and that things were well in hand for breakfast, I pushed a full tea cup over to Verity and subsided onto a kitchen chair with a sigh. “Thanks for your help tonight, V. It really does make a difference.”