Lady Catherine, the Earl, and the Real Downton Abbey

by The Countess of Carnarvon

  There was yet another shooting party before the Christmas celebrations of 1929 finally got under way. This year the Carnarvons were at home with their children and a group of friends and family. They had not forgotten Reggie, but it was time to move on.

  The 1930s had until recently promised more of the steady success of the past few years, at least for Highclere’s owner. After six years of careful economising, in which Porchey was greatly assisted not only by Fearnside but also by Marcus Wickham Boynton, who continued to act as his agent and adviser for the estate and stud, Highclere was in much more stable financial shape than it had been when Porchey had inherited.

  He had looked for ways to generate income as well as cut costs. A particular success was the golf course, which he turned into a subscription course in order to make it pay for itself. Golf was an increasingly popular pastime, and no longer just for Porchey’s guests. Local people and Highclere staff could enjoy a game. In fact Fearnside the butler and Van Celst the valet exasperated their employer by consistently achieving better handicaps than him. Lord Carnarvon would get his revenge by turning up to play in shorts, which infuriated the other players as they were forbidden to wear informal garb.

  The 1920s were boom years for many, particularly financiers and industrialists. Lord Carnarvon’s situation was, if not booming, certainly not desperate. There was a general sense among the asset-owning classes that the stock market couldn’t fall and the threat of international conflict was receding. It was a decade that saw the consolidation of great fortunes alongside the continuing exposure of millions to poverty. There was a steady unrolling of rights and a gradual shifting of power, as witnessed by the rise of the Labour movement, but events such as the failure of the 1926 General Strike demonstrated that though the times were volatile and unemployment was rising, the country was a long way from revolution.

  For years afterwards, Porchey loved to tell a story about his contribution to the settling of the strike. The government was unsure of the scale of the threat but had been making preparations for some time and had drafted the Army to assist the police in the preservation of order. Porchey had maintained links with his regiment ever since his succession to the title, and now found himself in Liverpool, in command of a platoon of 7th Hussars. They erected a sandbag barricade close to Union Street and each man was then issued with five rounds of ammunition, which Porchey was adamant should not be loaded without his express command. At the approach of ‘a mob of men and women’, and fearing escalating tension, he jumped up to speak and the crowd halted. ‘I firmly believe that my horse, Gracious Gift, ridden by Tommy Hulme, will win the Novices’ Chase at Manchester at three o’clock,’ proffered Porchey. He was loudly applauded and the crowd dispersed. Sure enough, Gracious Gift, which had started at odds of 11-8 against, did indeed win. The following day a steady stream of eager punters filed past the barricade in expectation of another winning tip. As Porchey wrote in his memoirs, ‘I replied sadly that I did not know any more but the best winner for all would be for them to go back to work so we could return to barracks.’ The strike was duly broken (only in small part, one suspects, thanks to Porchey’s generosity with his hunches) and many, especially among the establishment, heaved a huge sigh of relief.

  Thirty years later, when Duff Cooper came to write in his memoirs about the election of May 1929, he reflected on politicians’ inevitable difficulties in assessing the mood of the moment. The country had felt itself secure, he wrote, there were no storm clouds yet on the horizon, either financially from the west or from war in Europe. The country was bored with the government, who were perceived as old and tired, but the Conservative Party campaigned on ‘Safety First’. As Duff Cooper put it, ‘No greater psychological mistake could have been made than to promise safety to a people pining for excitement.’

  The Conservatives lost their majority, Labour formed a minority government with the balance of power held by the Liberals (campaign slogan ‘We can conquer unemployment’) and, just five months later, things started to get very exciting indeed, in spectacularly challenging ways.

  In October of 1929 the Wall Street crash profoundly destabilised the world’s economy. The effects did not immediately take a toll on Highclere but it was nonetheless a shock to the Carnarvons, as it was to the country at large. Nationally, unemployment remained high at 10 per cent, with the likelihood of much more to come, and the new administration seemed to have no robust response to the signs of worsening gloom.

  In the event it was Labour leader Ramsay MacDonald who became the next Prime Minister after Stanley Baldwin’s departure, not Churchill, who in 1930 was entering his so-called ‘wilderness years’ in opposition. If MacDonald’s name had cropped up at all during that conversation at Blenheim, it seems safe to assume that Churchill would have applied some withering epithet. On other occasions he famously referred to MacDonald as ‘the Boneless Wonder’ and remarked that he possessed a great skill for ‘compressing the largest amount of words into the smallest amount of thought.’

  In fact, MacDonald and his Chancellor of the Exchequer, Philip Snowden, were not so much thoughtless as overly committed to the conventional wisdom of the day. Lloyd George and John Maynard Keynes were among the many from outside as well as inside the Labour Party who were already urging a spending programme to stimulate growth. MacDonald and Snowden were far more cautious, being staunch supporters of an orthodox approach to finances that regarded borrowing to fund state-sponsored growth as little more than Bolshevism run mad. As the two opposing blocs of opinion squabbled, a sort of paralysis set in.

  The 1929 election, nicknamed ‘the Flapper election’, was the first in which women were able to vote on the same terms as men. The franchise had been extended to all women over the age of twenty-one in the Representation of the People Act of 1928 and, thanks to the abolition of the requirement that a woman voter should be a householder or the wife of one, it also had a huge impact in terms of social class. Without the 1928 legislation, Catherine would not have been able to vote in the 1929 election, since she did not meet the age requirement of thirty. Most of her female staff, who had previously been both too young and most definitely not of the property-owning classes, were in a sense doubly enfranchised. Young working-class women who had never given politics a second thought, on the understandable grounds that it was literally no business of theirs, now had the vote. Upstairs and downstairs, the world was changing for women, but within the microcosm of Highclere, the relationship between Catherine and her employees remained the same as it ever had been.

  In 1932 an eighteen-year-old local girl named Gladys joined the household as a junior housemaid. More than forty years later, having read the 6th Earl’s memoirs, she wrote to him with recollections of her time at Highclere. She remembered that during the course of her work she often saw and admired Lady Carnarvon, but that they never spoke. There was simply no need for conversation within the terms of their relationship. Gladys recalled that the Countess was always in a hurry to see Lord Porchester and Lady Penelope first thing in the morning, and since she was frequently still blacking the grate and relaying the fire in the nursery, she often saw her there. Lady Carnarvon wore the most beautiful negligees and robes made of light-coloured silk, Gladys remembered, and would come running up the Red Staircase in her haste to see her children. ‘She seemed to float,’ said Gladys, ‘she was that beautiful.’

  Catherine might not have spoken to her housemaids but she had a much more direct relationship both with the cook, Mrs Mackie, and with the housekeeper, who from 1932 was Mrs Lloyd. With Mrs Mackie she planned menus for the family and in particular for the house parties that were such a feature of Highclere’s life.

  Even when the shockwaves of the Great Depression finally did reach them, Porchey’s love of doing things properly meant that splendid hospitality was still one of the very first priorities. ‘In 1931 I suddenly woke up to the fact that my securities and properties were worth about one quarter of what they had been valued at a year pr
eviously.’ This didn’t stop him from spending a great deal on food, wine and the talents of the kitchen staff. In July 1933, a couple of years later, when, admittedly, the slump had eased up a little, the monthly total for Highclere’s expenses, including staff wages, provisions, coal, the telephone bill—everything required to keep the great house in peak form—was £909 7s. 8d. This sum included £265 on provisions alone, which dwarfed the combined wages bill for more than twenty-five people, of £157. Extra money was spent on fruit and vegetables.

  Porchey and Catherine cut some costs when they were alone but not when they entertained. Novelist Evelyn Waugh, who spent the inter-war years flitting from country-house party to country-house party, remarked approvingly of any establishment that met his exacting standards for lavish comfort that it was ‘very Highclere’.

  Waugh was an occasional visitor during the mid-1920s, but didn’t return after the failure of his brief and acrimonious first marriage to Porchey’s cousin, also called Evelyn, daughter of his aunt Winifred, Lady Burghclere. The engagement had been met with considerable opposition from Lady Burghclere on the grounds that Waugh was not just a penniless and unsuccessful writer but also a dissolute drunk. The marriage went ahead, nonetheless, in June 1928, in the presence of just three friends of the couple. A year later Waugh’s wife announced she had begun an affair with a mutual friend and he sued for divorce. Nothing daunted, eight years later he was to marry another of Porchey’s cousins, Laura, the youngest daughter of his uncle Aubrey. The family was even less impressed than it had been on the previous occasion, despite Waugh’s attainment of considerable success as a novelist and travel writer in the interim.

  Evelyn Waugh was not the only Highclere guest to appreciate its blend of laid-back atmosphere, appetite for fun and unstinting attention to detail. Such a combination was made possible by Catherine and Porchey’s youthful spirits, wealth and, above all, their staff’s professionalism. House parties were a particular test of the smooth running of a household. They entailed a huge amount of additional work, on top of the already demanding everyday schedules.

  The housemaids and kitchen maids were the castle’s earliest risers. Gladys’s first job after she woke, typically at six in the morning, was to clean and black-lead the Wyverns—the heraldic mythical creatures, which feature in the Carnarvons’ coat of arms and stand guard by the front door—before scrubbing the marble of the entrance hall and cleaning out the grate in the Saloon.

  Meanwhile, down in the kitchens, the second kitchen maid, Gwendolen, who shared a room with Gladys in the servants’ quarters right at the top of the castle’s turrets, was making a start on breakfast as the kitchen porter shovelled coal into the great Carron stoves. Mrs Mackie bustled in to oversee preparation of eggs and cold meats for the Dining Room and breakfast trays laden with fresh fruit, tea, toast and marmalade for the footmen to take up to the ladies.

  Gwendolen had started as a scullery maid when she was sixteen years old and she rose to be the vegetable maid before being promoted to second kitchen maid under Mrs Mackie. Once breakfast was out of the way, her first task was to clean the copper pans with soft soap, salt and lemon skins so that they shone like burnished gold. Mrs Mackie took a particular pride in her coppers and had exacting standards.

  Two footmen would hurry up the staff stairs so that nothing became cold, push carefully though the green baize door onto the quiet Gallery and deliver the trays. Meanwhile the nursery footman would take up the children’s breakfast to the very top floor.

  When all the dirtiest jobs in the house had been done, safely out of sight of the family and visitors, and breakfast had been provided, all the servants would sit down to their own meal. It was always an abundant and delicious breakfast; there was no stinting at Highclere. Having checked that the family had everything they required, Fearnside would join Mrs Lloyd and Van Celst in their dining room, where they took their meals together, waited on by one of the junior footmen.

  Once breakfast had been cleared, kitchen maids had to get straight on with lunch. Housemaids set off to the upper reaches of the house, but discretion was required. Bedrooms could be tidied and cleaned only once their inhabitants were safely downstairs. Since the family moved from Morning Room to Dining Room to Library throughout the day, the footmen and maids who served and cleaned would follow in their wake, always just out of sight unless specifically summoned.

  Housemaids and footmen could rest for a couple of hours during the afternoon, until tea was served in the Library, but then it was time to prepare for dinner, which might be a relaxed or a formal occasion depending on the number of visitors. The family always dressed for dinner in white tie if they had guests, but by the end of the 1920s, Porchey and Catherine had adopted the more informal dinner jacket if they were dining alone, which was considered sufficient in the privacy of one’s own home or club.

  Tea-time was the housemaids’ opportunity to prepare the bedrooms so that the company could take some rest, write letters or read a little in private and then dress for the evening. Highclere had had some en-suite bathrooms with running water from the end of the nineteenth century, and Porchey’s renovations on his succession to the title had installed more. It was nonetheless customary to provide jugs of hot water with fresh white towels. There were no radiators on the first floor, so fires had to be lit and beds turned down so they could air. Footmen came on duty again to serve drinks in the Saloon, and at dinner. The kitchen was working at full pelt. Even a simple meal consisted of three courses. There were five courses when Lord and Lady Carnarvon had company.

  When guests were staying there were more trays to prepare, more courses to cook and more fires to light. In exceptional circumstances, Mrs Mackie might petition Mrs Lloyd for temporary staff, but often the maids were simply required to pitch in and help out. This was sometimes a welcome change of routine. Gladys remembered that after a few months she was allowed to assist the footmen as they took the early morning cups of tea to guests. On one occasion, when both the Prince of Wales and Prince George were staying, she was thrilled to take them their morning tea. She had only ever seen their photos in the newspapers and was almost overwhelmed. She never forgot, that same weekend, that she collided with Prince George on the Gallery as she rushed to finish her duties. This was a terrific faux pas, since the art of being an effective housemaid was to be an invisible presence, not a physically tangible one. But he gave her such a lovely smile that, even as she blushed and apologised profusely, she couldn’t help thinking how good looking he was.

  Prince George was a particular favourite with the Highclere staff. He was a frequent visitor throughout the 1920s and early 1930s, and endeared himself to everyone by being polite, appreciative and cheerful. Gladys remembered that the housemaids jostled with one another to be the one to air his room and turn his bed sheets down, hoping they might catch a glimpse of him. In accordance with the strict seniority of rank that governed life below stairs just as it did upstairs, it should have been the head housemaid’s privilege. One day, junior housemaid Betty couldn’t resist and, in a fit of bravery, sneaked ahead of the senior maid to turn down his bed and lay out his pyjamas.

  These encounters could all be a bit much for some, though, especially the younger staff. Gladys remembered that when her friend Gwen was a newly arrived scullery maid, she was once petrified into timid silence by the sound of Prince George striding through the kitchens late in the evening and calling out for Mrs Mackie. He often came downstairs after dinner to pass on his appreciation for her excellent cooking, but Gwen, who was the only one still present, didn’t know this. She hid in the patisserie room, far too shy to answer his call. Mrs Mackie was furious when she found out.

  Gladys remembered that the house party weekends were hard work, but for a young woman like her who loved to look at magazine pictures of movie stars in their gowns, they had their dreamy romantic qualities as well. Visiting royalty, handsome young sportsmen, ladies in beautiful fashions: she enjoyed it all, and sometimes tucked herself
behind a pillar on the Gallery to listen as the guests assembled down in the Saloon, complimenting each other on their dresses or laughing as they chatted about some mutual acquaintance.

  The two footmen, George Widdowes, or Charles as he was known to the family, and George Rand (whose name really was George), would stand tall and straight in full evening dress with their silver trays of cocktails. The custom of assigning conventional, typically ‘smarter’, names to staff seems totally archaic now and was dying out by the late Twenties. Traditionally, valets were always George, first footmen, Charles, but in the time between George Widdowes’ and Van Celst’s arrival at Highclere, the practice had slipped from favour. His Lordship’s valet was known as Mr van Celst to staff and simply Van Celst to the family.

  Lady Carnarvon would have made a careful study of her guests’ interests and planned the most appropriate placement for dinner, one that took account of precedent and tastes. Fearnside, who had worked for the family for nearly thirty years, was a useful ally, since he knew everyone and could advise Catherine on who might prefer not to sit next to whom. It was his task to write out the cards with guests’ names. On his signal that all was ready, Catherine took everyone through for dinner. Lady Carnarvon and Lord Carnarvon sat opposite each other in the middle of the long table and, if Prince George were there, he would always be seated on her right.

  Gladys remembered that if Widdowes or Rand came down to the kitchens with the report that the word ‘dancing’ had been mentioned, it was all hands on deck. The men would set about rolling up the carpet in the Saloon and Mrs Mackie would heat up a mixture of beeswax and turpentine for the girls to apply to the wooden floor. One of the footmen would assist Lord Carnarvon to set up the gramophone. Lady Carnarvon was such a good dancer and loved nothing more than to encourage her guests to dance; on these evenings the fun would go on late into the night. The footmen had to ensure the cigarette boxes were refilled and drinks were offered in fresh glasses to those guests catching their breath in the Drawing Room. While Lord Carnarvon enjoyed the occasional cigar, Lady Carnarvon smoked cigarettes that she fitted into beautiful slim holders.