‘That’s better, Missus,’ Eliza said when she’d finished eating. She was sitting on the three-legged stool that usually lived under the table, her round red arms folded on her knees and her back a little bent. She looked comfortable and cheerful, and Tilly smiled at her with real pleasure. ‘You looked right peaky before. Got a bit of colour to you now, you ’ave.’
‘It’s been a difficult morning,’ Tilly said. She was indeed feeling better by the moment. The tea and toast filled her most comfortably.
‘Ain’t it always for women, Mum!’ Eliza said cheerfully. ‘My Ma’s a right old harridan and no messing, but it ain’t all her fault. Like she always says, God wasn’t very pleased with Eve, one way and another, and we bin payin’ for it ever since, us women, on account of God being a man, and them notably unfair.’
‘I’m not sure that isn’t blasphemous talk, Eliza,’ Tilly said reprovingly. ‘Perhaps I should not listen to you when –’
‘Blasphemous, Missus? Why, bless you, you should ’ear the things Ma says about God when her time comes with the little ’uns! Curses the men hard enough but God even more for makin’ ’em, and doing it the hard way, usin’ us women. But there it is, Missus. We get over it, they say. I dare say we must. My Ma’s makin’ new little ones often enough, after all.’ And she gave a coarse laugh that wasn’t in the least offensive, Tilly thought. Just honest.
‘Your father –’ she began and then stopped. It was not her business, after all, to enquire what Eliza’s home life was like, and she had problems enough of her own without becoming too embroiled in her housemaid’s, but Eliza didn’t seem to notice the hesitation.
‘Father, Missus? We never ’ad one. A lot o’ men around, you understand, but none of what you’d call a father what looked out for us. That’s why my Ma was so eager to sell me to your Mrs Leander.
‘Oh, Eliza! I told you how sorry –’
‘Oh, I’m not complaining, Missus! Just explaining like. I’ll deal with these dishes, then, and you can tell me what you meant to tell me, hmm?’ And she took the tray out to the scullery and rattled around there for a few minutes before returning to replace the washed cups and saucers on the dresser and to come and stand beside Tilly, waiting respectfully.
‘Well,’ Tilly said and smoothed her household books on her knee, all of them neatly piled with the week’s page opened.
‘I’ve been working out our budget Eliza, and I must tell you that though I must be exceedingly careful it is not so bad as I had feared, I am able to give you some money for yourself. It isn’t much, I’m afraid. I can manage only one shilling and sixpence a week, which adds up in the year as three pounds eighteen shillings and sixpence. I shall make this to a round sum of four pounds, of course, but it is only a fraction of what you might have elsewhere, yet it is all I can manage.’
‘And enough for me, Missus. I have my bed and roof – and me in a room all of my own, Mum, me what slept under the table in my Ma’s house for want of room in any of the beds – why that’s worth ten pound a year to me! And here I am in print dresses and aprons as you gave me, and I get my victuals same as you do. I got no complaints, Missus, like I said. You don’t need to worry about money for me.’
‘Well,’ Tilly said firmly. ‘I must pay the rate that is the fairest I can. I will also seek to find a woman who will clean for us. It is not easy to get good women to come by the day, of course.’
‘Slatterns, Mum,’ Eliza said with relish. ‘Dirty and disgustin’ as they come. I saw the sort they took from our village for such work at the big house, and it was something to make you ‘eave, really it was. I don’t need no slattern under foot, Missus, I can manage well enough.’
‘But this is a big house, Eliza. There are the big rooms –’
‘Dinin’ room what we only uses of an evenin’ and then not always, so cleaning it twice a week’ll do well enough, once I get it right. Drawing-room – well, it’s only you what sits there, Missus, ain’t it? So that’s no never mind. Once a week’ll see me nicely there. Which leaves just the mornin’ room and the kitchen what needs daily care, like, and the bedrooms and then not all of them. There’s your Ma’s boudoir, o’ course, and her needs, but she’s no trouble, poor soul, and your room and the Master’s.’
‘And Mrs Leander,’ Tilly said. She kept her head down, not wanting to look at Eliza. ‘I would prefer she was not here, and also prefer you did not have to fetch and carry meals to her, but –’
‘Well, Missus,’ Eliza said comfortably. ‘It’s the Master what wants it, and like I said, men! It’s no trouble to me as long as she keeps a civil tongue in ’er ’ead, and she does, you know.’ A slow smile stretched her cheeks. ‘I’ll tell you what, Missus, she don’t like her situation no better’n what you do. Sits up there aping the lady, while you’re down ’ere bein’ the housekeeper, but she knows and I know which one’s the real lady, and which one’s the jumped up fancy woman, and she don’t like it one bit. She’d be away out of here like a ferret out of an ‘ole, she would, if she had the chance. Only she don’t, for she has no money neither, do she? So there it is, Missus. It’s no trouble to me, none of it. The bedrooms what ain’t bein’ used I can turn out once a month or thereabouts, just to air ’em like. There’re only the four of ’em, after all. As for the attics, where’s the trouble there? My room I keep spick ’n’ span without a moment’s trouble and the other four, well, I’ll tell you, Missus, until you’re ready to put more servants in, and I won’t deny I ain’t in any hurry to see you do it, we can keep the rooms shut up like a tomb. No need for no slattern, Missus. You just leave it to me.’
‘Heavens, Eliza, how you’ve grown this past few days!’ Tilly couldn’t help it. She looked up at the confident young face above the arms that were folded comfortably across her sizeable bust, at the wide smile and the clear green eyes under the rather untidy mass of reddish curly hair and tried to see the cowed child who had first come to the house. But she couldn’t. Eliza might be little more than fourteen, but she was fit and strong, now she was eating so much better than she had in her village home and she had a naturally ebullient nature that ensured she was happy in circumstances that others might have found anything but agreeable. ‘It seems to me you quite thrive on difficulties.’
‘Bless you, Missus, you don’t know what difficulties is compared to some I’ve known!’ Eliza said. ‘Now, what are we cooking for tonight’s dinner? Will the gentlemen be here for it?’
Tilly came back to reality with a jolt.
‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I – well, I cannot be sure who will be here. Papa, I have no doubt. My husband –’ She hesitated. ‘Well –’
‘Suppose we make somethin’ what’ll not be wasted if it don’t all get ate,’ Eliza said. ‘I’ve been reading of this magazine –’
Tilly didn’t stop to think. ‘You can read, Eliza!’ And then blushed. But Eliza was unworried.
‘I know it seems a bit strange for a village girl, Missus, but the parson, he took an interest in us, like. When we went for our Confirmation classes, he said as many of us as wanted could go to him to learn reading and he’d lend us books. So I did and I was quick.’ She looked richly pleased with herself. ‘Parson said I was the quickest what he ever taught, so I can read real good, Missus.’
Eliza darted to the kitchen table and tugged out the big drawer at the far end, and pulled out a magazine.
‘I got it off the girl who works down the other end of the Grove,’ she said and set it in front of Tilly. ‘She wanted only a ha’penny for it and seein’ as it cost tuppence to her, I thought it a fair buy. And it’s got cookery in it.’
She turned the pages eagerly, riffling past fashion (unbelievably elegant plates stared up at Tilly, making her feel most dowdy) and gardening hints and what seemed to be a most enthralling tale of a duke on his travels, and finally stopped when she came to the page headed HOUSEHOLD MANAGEMENT. ECONOMIC DINNERS FOR DAINTY HOUSEHOLDS.
‘Dainty households,’ Tilly murmured. ‘What do they
mean by that?’
‘Why, that you send the food to table dressed pretty,’ Eliza said. ‘But there’s one dish here what I thought looked good and I could go over to Mr Spurgeon and get the necessary from him in no time. And the vegetable garden man comes this afternoon.’
‘Stewed shin of beef,’ read Tilly. ‘Required to prepare: a shin of good beef, a head of celery, an onion, a faggot of savoury herbs and half a teaspoon of allspice, eight whole black peppercorns, carrots, small onions, turnips, butter and flour, mushroom ketchup, port wine and pepper and salt.’
‘We have some mushroom ketchup in the larder, for I looked,’ Eliza said. ’And the spices. I thought I could do that easy. It takes above four hours to cook, but that won’t be no bother to me, and the instructions are here, nice as you like, see? Cut the meat up into five pieces or thereabouts – well, Mr Spurgeon will do that for me, I dare say – and boil it for four hours with herbs and spices and so forth. And then the vegetables all cut fancy – why, I’d be proud to work at that. It reads really tasty, don’t it? And with a nice bit of mashed ‘taters and a soup made of the gravy and p’raps some bread-and-butter pudding to follow – and there’s the receipt for making of that here, and we’ve got some bread left from yesterday and there’s two eggs from the last time the dairy man come, and I might even find a few raisins like what it says here. Well, Missus, it will be as good a dinner as you could have and not too much out of your purse, for see here what it says. “The shin of beef will serve seven.” So it will leave some for tomorrow, and it keeps well, and costs but fourpence a serving. And the pudding can be made for ninepence and more than enough for twice. As for the soup, well, we can make that from the gravy we get from the beef, and there you are. I would say the Master would be well pleased. It won’t be a lot o’ courses, like what ’e’s used to, but I’d ha’ thought one dish cooked proper beat six as was cooked lazy and made bad eating, any time.’
‘It looks very difficult,’ Tilly said dubiously, staring at the page. ‘There seems to be so much to do – cut the vegetables fancifully as it pleases you, it says here. I have never considered ways to cut vegetables fancifully, I must say.’
‘That’s where the dainty comes in,’ Eliza said. ‘If you cut ’em all into strips that’s fancy enough, ain’t it? And it can’t be hard. The Master don’t strike me as a man as’ll fret over the shapes of his vegetables. It’s the quality of his meat as’ll worry him.’
‘Oh, Eliza, you are as good as a tonic!’ Tilly smiled broadly. ‘You make me feel anything is possible!’
‘Well, so it is, Missus! I’m going to be the best cook as ever stepped, you see if I don’t. Betwixt and between us, we’ll deal very well, you’ll see.’
‘I’m sure we shall,’ Tilly said. ‘Only, please, Eliza, stop calling me Missus. It sounds so – old.’
Eliza grinned. ‘Well, I dare say it does, Mis – Mum. But I got to say summat, ain’t I? I’ll call you Madam if you like it better.’
‘No,’ Tilly said firmly. ‘Mrs Quentin will do well enough.’
‘I’ll try to remember, Mum – er, Mrs Quentin. Bit of a mouthful, mind. I’ll just say Mum, shall I, Missus? That’ll be easy enough.’
She lifted her chin suddenly. ‘Is that your Ma’s bell? She had her breakfast and kept it down, what’s more, and I thought she was asleep. I’ll go and see.’
Tilly looked over her shoulder at the bell panel and shook her head. ‘It’s the front door, Eliza,’ she said. ‘Oh dear. You need – um – um –’ and bit her lip, not wanting to hurt the girl’s feelings, but she was quick and understood at once.
‘I’ll change my pinny fast as a bird goes up in front of the scythe,’ she said and disappeared into the scullery as Tilly, a little flurried, got to her feet and smoothed her own gown. Could it be Frank coming back to beg her forgiveness for his unkindness? It was a pleasant thought but of course quite ridiculous. If he had come back it would be to shout at her, no doubt, and anyway, he would not ring the doorbell but use his key and come stamping in and –
She pulled her thoughts away and went hurriedly upstairs, with Eliza galloping a little heavily behind her. As they reached the hall she nodded at Eliza and then towards the front door, where a shape could be seen against the glass. A woman’s shape judging by the size of it.
‘I shall be in the morning room, since we have a fire there,’ she hissed. ‘Bring her to me, whoever it is. And you look very neat.’ For Eliza had not just changed her apron but had slicked back her hair and set her cap straight, and had even removed the smuts from her round cheeks.
Tilly had no sooner settled herself in her chair beside the morning-room fire and picked up her needlework, in an attempt to pretend she had been sitting there all morning, when Eliza appeared at the door.
‘If you please, Mum, it’s a lady payin’ you a mornin’ call. It’s Mrs –’ she peered at the card on the small silver salver she held in her hand and shook her head. ‘Can’t say, I’m sure, Mum.’
Behind her there was a rustle of silk taffeta and a high voice cried, ‘Oh, Tilly, imagine – it is I! I have come back! Do say you remember me!’ And Eliza was set aside unceremoniously and replaced by a rotund figure in the brightest of green silk pelisses over a very frilled and braided and remarkably large crinoline, considering the time of the day. The whole was set off by quite the most heavily trimmed of round hats Tilly had ever seen, and beneath its heavily bedecked brim and the lace curtain all around it, a roguish face peered smilingly at her. It had dimples that threatened to split the cheeks and wide dark eyes and lips that had clearly been rouged or at least well bitten to make them glow. And Tilly couldn’t think for the life of her who this woman was who now bore down upon her and almost stifled her in a most ecstatic embrace.
Chapter Nine
‘ALICE, YOU SAY?’ Tilly said in a somewhat muffled voice, as she extricated herself from another voluminous embrace. ‘Ah – well, I am sure, though I cannot say precisely – ah – when do you say it was?’
‘Oh, wretched, wretched perfidy,’ cried the vision in the hat, dimpling alarmingly. ‘To have forgotten me! Do not deny it! You have forgotten me completely!’ She held Tilly at arms’ length and gazed at her, her head on one side, and her smile wider than ever, if that were possible. ‘Let me look at you. I would never have forgotten you, not in a million years. That sweet little face and so anxious an expression, like a dear little bird watching to see that the bigger ones do not steal its breadcrumbs – you dear sweet darling!’ And had Tilly not managed by dint of some fast movements to sit herself down again, while indicating a chair to her visitor, she would have been hugged yet again. She already felt overwhelmed by the scent of Parma violets that her visitor had clearly used with abandon just before her arrival, and much more of it would, she feared, make her feel quite faint.
‘Alice, you say? Er – if you could perhaps tell me your last name, it might jog what I must confess is an odiously bad memory.’
‘Oh, I am Alice Compton now. It is spelled with an O, of course, but said with a U – Cumpton, like that. It is a very old family, you understand. My Freddy is collaterally related to a duke – but we do not consider that at all important! I was, as you will recall, always an honest person with no trace of the toad-eater about me.’
‘But you were not Alice Compton when I knew you last?’ Tilly tried again, floundering badly. Try as she might she could see no hint of any recognizable feature in this extraordinary person; had she ever been a friend of hers, surely she could not have forgotten her?
Alice Compton was unpinning her hat and Tilly’s heart sank a little. It meant she was settling down for a very long prose indeed and although Tilly’s life was generally dull and the few polite calls paid on her by her neighbours added a small interest to it, she did not feel that she could talk for long to Alice Compton, related to a duke by marriage. Quite apart from anything else, the chances of Tilly herself saying much at all in the company of this ebullient and very talkative person w
ere slender. Alice was now chattering again.
‘Now, if I were to be really cruel I would make you rehearse the names of every person you ever knew in all your life, but I will not do so, for cruelty is not in my nature. No, I shall tell you, if you are quite sure you cannot recollect?’ She patted her hair with some complacency. It was extremely bright hair, quite golden in hue, and for a brief moment Tilly marvelled at it; she could not remember ever seeing such a colour on any head and surely would not have forgotten it if she had. It looked not unlike the sort of hair that was affixed to the heads of wax dolls and she wondered whether this hair had been dyed, and then dismissed the thought as unworthy. It was dressed most elaborately, particularly when compared with Tilly’s own simple centre parting and ear-covering sweeps pulled back into a bun. It was frizzed and puffed and curled to an amazing degree, with ringlets at the ears and the back of the neck and the most amazing sweeps and curls in the fringe. How she could have borne to set a hat over it, Tilly could not imagine.
‘I am afraid that you do indeed have the better of me,’ Tilly said at last. ‘For try as I might I cannot – I am sorry. I do hope you will forgive me.’
‘Oh, of course I shall!’ Alice smiled roguishly and then leaned forwards in a wash of Parma violet to pat Tilly’s knee. ‘My name before I married dear Freddy was Spender. Now do you remember?’
‘Spender –’ Tilly said and then it did come back, in a great rush. This was the child who had lived in the house next door and who had jeered at her over the garden wall and pinched her till she cried when she came to play in the garden at Mrs Leander’s invitation, and then blamed Tilly for hurting her. The child who had sat on Austen Kingsley’s knee as he bounced her up and down to make her squeal in utter delight, which had made Austen stare scornfully at Tilly, for when he did it to her – or tried to – she wept bitterly and would climb down quickly. The child Alice Spender who had had dull brown hair, she now recalled, as well as the sharpest of knees and elbows, for she had been a skinny little creature; could this be the same Alice, this plump person who beamed at her so happily and who clearly had such different childhood memories? It did not seem possible.
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