Her Mother's Daughter

by Evie Grace

  ‘One more.’

  Agnes spun the globe and stopped it with her fingers straddling the Indian and Pacific oceans. She leaned in close and read the names of the nearest countries.

  ‘Australia,’ she said slowly, ‘and Tasmania.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Nanny leaned across and forcibly turned the globe back with Europe uppermost. ‘We won’t be studying those. They are too far away to be of interest.’

  ‘I think I should find them at least as fascinating as Italy,’ Agnes protested. Even more so now that Nanny had drawn her attention to them by her reaction.

  ‘No, I have very little knowledge of those’ – Nanny flicked her hand as if to push the globe away – ‘distant lands.’ Agnes stepped back, astounded. It was the first time that Miss Treen had ever admitted to a gap in her learning. ‘We must put the globe away. Immediately.’

  They wheeled it back into the cupboard, then Nanny locked the door and put the key around her neck. Miriam delivered soup, ham and bread to the schoolroom.

  Agnes returned to the nursery next door to wash her hands, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror above the washstand. Sometimes her eyes looked green, sometimes hazel, depending on the light. Her mouth, she thought, was too wide, but her nose was small and her cheekbones high and well shaped. She ran a brush through her wavy dark brown hair, wishing that it was lighter, more like Miriam’s. She yearned for some womanly curves and a time when she didn’t have to wear her skirts to just below the knee.

  As she returned to the schoolroom she overheard Nanny and Miriam talking.

  ‘The master has sent for a second doctor, would you believe?’ the maid said, and Agnes’s throat tightened. Mama had to be very sick to require the services of more than one medical man.

  ‘But why? Cannot Doctor Shaw give an opinion?’ Nanny demanded.

  ‘Apparently, the mistress is not satisfied with his diagnosis.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘We don’t know.’ Miriam’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Mrs Catchpole has bin plotting to find out.’

  ‘I beg you not to be part of the housekeeper’s plan,’ Miss Treen said. ‘I’m sure we will find out what was said soon enough.’

  Miriam left the schoolroom and Nanny said grace. She and Agnes ate in silence then rested for half an hour to aid the digestion before going for a walk across the marsh. The sun was already low in the sky and the light was growing dimpsy when they set out by the back door, crossed the yard and entered the kitchen garden.

  Agnes glanced back towards the imposing mass of Windmarsh Court with its brick walls, tiled roof and numerous chimney pots. The southern aspect of the house, on the advice of the architect who had designed it many years ago, had no windows to prevent the Black Death gaining entry on the prevailing winds. Fortunately, he had compensated for the lack of light by including tall arched windows to the grand rooms on the first floor on the other three sides in his plans.

  At the far end of the kitchen garden, beyond the rows of winter cabbages and raspberry canes, they passed through the gate in the wall and stepped on to the path. The tang of salt and cold air caught Agnes by the throat, making her cough.

  She tucked her hands inside her fur muff and set out along the embankment across the marsh. They went through the hamlet of Windmarsh, passing the church, two houses and a row of cottages built from grey Kentish ragstone and flint on the way, and back along the road beside the long, reed-lined ditch of brackish water to the house. They took the same route every day since her parents forbade any deviation from it. Mama had a fear of strangers. She didn’t like open spaces and crowds. In fact, she rarely left the house. Papa said they should keep to familiar paths to avoid mishaps, whatever those might be. Nanny had explained that he was being protective of his daughter, just as any other father would.

  They returned indoors. Agnes left her outdoor shoes in the boot room and put on her slippers, then caught up with Nanny in the kitchen. The oak dresser held an abundance of plates, fish kettles and a colander, and a meat chopper and a brass pot of skewers glinted from the table. Cook was standing red-faced over a pan that threatened to bubble over on the range, while the scullery maid wielded the bellows over the flames in the hearth.

  ‘How was your walk, miss?’ Mrs Nidget said, looking up from the pan.

  ‘It was very cold,’ Agnes said. ‘I should like some hot chocolate.’

  ‘A “please” wouldn’t go amiss,’ Nanny muttered from beside her.

  ‘Please,’ Agnes added petulantly.

  ‘Of course you can, ducky. I’ll send it up to the nursery with some freshly baked scones and lemon curd.’ Mrs Nidget had eyes like raisins, set deep above her doughy cheeks. She was almost as wide as she was tall, but Agnes had privately concluded that her ample figure bore no relation to the quality of her cooking.

  ‘I fear that you are spoiling the child,’ Nanny said, removing her gloves.

  ‘It isn’t me. If you want my opinion, it’s the way she’s being brought up. She has everything she can possibly need, and more, but no friends her own age.’

  ‘I didn’t ask for your views, thank you,’ Nanny said.

  Mrs Nidget shrugged.

  Not for the first time, Agnes noticed the tension between the two women. She felt sorry for Nanny, who didn’t quite fit in with either the servants or the family. It wasn’t her fault – it was due to her position in the household, not her character.

  ‘I was wondering if there was any news – the doctor?’

  ‘Oh, that?’ Cook scooped up some stew and sucked it noisily out of her ladle. ‘I should ’ave thought you would ’ave bin the first to know, the way the family favours you.’ She smiled, but it wasn’t a friendly smile, Agnes thought. ‘If the rumours are true, your position here will be secure for many years to come. I don’t know what it will mean for our young lady here.’

  ‘It won’t change anything. She will be loved just the same for her disposition, which never fails to bring sunshine to a dull day and a smile to everyone’s faces,’ Nanny said. ‘So it is true, Mrs Nidget? The doctor has confirmed it?’

  ‘Mr Turner overheard the master congratulating the mistress on her news.’ Turner was the butler who did everything from managing the indoor servants to ironing Papa’s newspapers in the morning. He was also in charge of the safe.

  Mrs Catchpole, the housekeeper, was supposed to be responsible for running the household, subject to the mistress’s instructions, but it was Turner and Mrs Nidget who ruled the roost at Windmarsh Court.

  ‘I don’t know how it is possible after all this time, and at her age,’ Cook said. ‘She is forty years old.’

  ‘God has answered her prayers at last.’

  ‘I don’t think He had much to do with it.’ Mrs Nidget gave a coarse laugh.

  Nanny frowned with displeasure as Cook went on, ‘I’m planning some new dishes to help the mistress keep her strength up. I’ve ordered oranges and lemons for a posset served with a dainty sugared almond shortbread. What do you think of that?’

  ‘I think that you will bankrupt the Berry-Clays,’ Nanny said.

  ‘They are made of money. It pours into the master’s hands on tap like the beer that flows from the brewery. We aren’t doing anything wrong. The mistress doesn’t like to be worried by trivial matters. She trusts us to do right by the family. She’s never complained, not once.’ Cook gave Nanny a long, hard stare. ‘You’ll keep your nose out of my business if you know what’s good for you.’

  Agnes shrank back, shocked at the way Mrs Nidget had spoken to her governess.

  ‘I thought Cook was rather impolite,’ she ventured as she and Nanny made their way upstairs to the schoolroom on the third floor.

  ‘She is no lady. She is without manners, breeding or education,’ Nanny agreed. ‘You, however, should have more delicacy than to criticise your elders. Children should be seen, not heard.’

  Agnes sighed inwardly at the expectation that she should behave like one of her dolls, s
itting in perfect silence on the shelf in the schoolroom. Nanny was much stricter than anyone else she knew.

  After the hot chocolate and scones, she practised reciting the poem she had learned in the morning and read quietly for a while before a meal of chicken and potato stew that didn’t taste of anything at all.

  The mantel clock chimed five and then six.

  ‘Look at the time!’ Nanny exclaimed. ‘Wash your hands and face, and brush your hair. Quickly. We mustn’t keep your mama and papa waiting.’

  Agnes didn’t take a second bidding.

  She loved all the rooms on the middle floor of the house, their extravagant decoration in marked contrast to the starkness of the nursery and schoolroom. In the drawing room, a fire danced in the marble hearth, bringing the cherubs carved into the mantel above to life. Gold and turquoise brocade drapes hung across the tall windows and rich tapestries decorated the walls. There were chairs with sumptuous upholstery, a chaise longue for Mama, a gleaming piano and all kinds of trinkets and curios that Papa’s grandfather had brought back from the voyages he made around the world upon his retirement from the brewery.

  The precious Italian glass vase had been removed to the safety of a side table when the drapes had been closed for the evening, and the candle that flickered in the sconce above scattered rainbow fragments on to the cloth on which it stood.

  Dodging the clutter and ignoring Miss Treen’s pleas for decorum, Agnes made straight for her father who was sitting in his leather armchair, dressed in a jacket and patterned cravat. He was tall with wide shoulders, flamboyant copper hair and a beard.

  She threw her arms around his neck, catching his scent of malt and cigar smoke.

  ‘Agnes, you are getting far too old for that,’ her mother sighed. She reminded Agnes of the Snow Queen in a fairy tale Nanny had once read to her. Her long fair hair was caught back from her thin face by two silver combs and she was wearing a pale grey bodice and skirt, lace undersleeves and an ivory shawl with a sparkling silver thread running through it. She was very beautiful, but her frozen features rarely softened to a smile, and her touch was like ice.

  ‘Mama, are you sick?’ Agnes asked.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Berry-Clay. Please, miss, come here,’ she heard Nanny say in vain.

  ‘Don’t worry, my dearest child. Your mother is quite well,’ Papa said. ‘Nanny, let her be a child for a little while longer. She’ll have to grow up all too soon.’

  Reassured as to Mama’s state of health, Agnes pulled away from her father and took up position in the middle of the room.

  ‘I’m going to recite a poem for you,’ she said, and without hesitation, she straightened her spine, took a deep breath and plunged in.

  ‘Never was the word “daffodil” enunciated in such a clear and enthusiastic way,’ said Papa admiringly when she had finished. Agnes smiled at his glowing praise. She knew he was exaggerating, but that was what he always did, as though he was deliberately compensating for Mama’s more critical appraisal of her talents.

  ‘It was decidedly average,’ Mama said, patting her hair into place. ‘What would Mr Wordsworth think upon hearing his delightful words put through the mangle like that? I’m sure I would have taught you to recite with far more expression.’

  But you didn’t, Agnes thought. Mama had this way of hurting her feelings, implying that she wasn’t good enough to be her daughter.

  ‘How can you say that?’ Papa said. ‘How can two pairs of ears hear so differently? I heard the voice of an angel.’

  ‘Really, James. You do exaggerate.’ Mama pouted.

  Papa stood up and walked across to his wife. He stood beside the chaise and rested his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘There, my dear Louisa, you have every reason to be distracted. Why don’t you tell Agnes our wonderful news?’

  ‘What is it?’ Agnes said. ‘Are we going to Italy?’

  ‘Where did you get that idea from, you peculiar creature?’ Mama said.

  ‘Perhaps I should leave,’ Nanny said.

  ‘You may stay,’ Mama said. ‘This announcement concerns you.’

  ‘There will soon be a new arrival in the house,’ Papa said, beaming.

  ‘A puppy?’ Agnes had always wanted a lapdog.

  Mama touched her stomach where the sides of her bodice met at a point at the front.

  ‘I have had my suspicions for a while, and now not one, but two doctors have confirmed that I am with child.’ She had dark circles beneath her eyes and her complexion, which was always fashionably pale, looked whiter than ever, but a smile played on her lips. ‘I never thought I would live to see this day. I thank God for this miracle.’

  ‘In a few months’ time, Agnes, you will have a baby brother or sister,’ Papa explained, but it didn’t help.

  Mama said she was with child, but Agnes couldn’t see a child anywhere. She was confused. Having led such a sheltered life at Windmarsh Court, she had no idea about babies and where they came from.

  ‘Pay attention to your father,’ Mama said.

  ‘I said, you’ll have a brother or sister,’ Papa repeated.

  ‘Oh, I’d like a sister, please.’ She clapped her hands together with delight.

  ‘No, it is a boy. I am certain of it,’ Mama said.

  ‘It would be better all round if that was the case,’ Papa said.

  ‘Indeed.’ Mama’s voice was suddenly brittle with resentment. ‘My husband has put me in a situation where, if he should die without a son, the brewery will pass to his brother and then his brother’s elder son, and I shall be dependent on their generosity and a small annual income given to me by my parents upon my marriage. It is a sorry state of affairs which has caused me much anxiety in the past.’

  ‘I have no intention of dying for a very long time, but if anything should happen, our son will inherit the brewery. Don’t fret. I am but fifty-two years old. My father was hale and hearty until he was eighty-three.’ Papa slapped his thigh with delight. ‘My brother will be one of the first to congratulate us, I’m certain.’

  ‘May I offer you my felicitations,’ Nanny said calmly.

  ‘Felicitations accepted,’ Papa guffawed. ‘Of course, we will continue to require your services until the boy is eight, when he will go to school.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Agnes could hear the relief in her governess’s voice.

  ‘Can I go to school?’ she asked.

  ‘No, Agnes,’ Mama said.

  ‘Why not, Mama?’

  ‘What sensible young lady would wish to go to school in preference to remaining here at Windmarsh Court with her mama and papa and Nanny’s excellent teaching?’ Papa said, but no one gave her time to reply.

  ‘Nanny, remove Agnes to the nursery,’ Mama said. ‘Mr Berry-Clay and I have much to discuss.’

  ‘Kisses first.’ Papa pointed to his whiskery cheek. Agnes stepped up and kissed him as she always did. She walked across to kiss Mama, who turned away as she always did, and then she followed Nanny back to the nursery.

  ‘Where is the baby now?’ Agnes asked when she was getting ready for bed. ‘How do they know it will be a boy?’

  ‘They don’t,’ Nanny said sternly. ‘It is wishful thinking. It’s just as likely to be a girl.’

  ‘Who will bring it to the house?’ Agnes thought she recalled one of her cousins telling her that there was a stork that delivered babies.

  ‘It is far too delicate a subject for a young lady’s ears and one that shouldn’t be discussed until the day of her marriage.’

  ‘I imagine it is painful.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Nanny’s eyes widened with apparent shock, quickly veiled.

  ‘I mean the way that the baby is dropped down the chimney. I’m glad that we don’t remember that part.’ Agnes changed the subject. ‘Will Mama and Papa still love me?’

  ‘Of course they will. What a strange thing to say! They have always loved you as their daughter, and always will. That will never change. When they adopted you as a baby,
they took you on as their own. No one could have been more delighted with you than your papa.’

  ‘And Mama?’

  ‘She was happy too.’

  ‘How could she be when she really wanted a boy?’

  ‘She would have loved a boy or a girl equally.’ Agnes wasn’t sure that Nanny was convinced. ‘Goodnight, Agnes. Sweet dreams.’

  As soon as her head touched the fragrant, lavender-scented pillow, she fell asleep, reassured that she would soon have a companion in the nursery, someone she could call her brother, and her life would carry on as before, but with more joy in it.

  Chapter Two

  The Golden Linnet

  Winter turned into spring and Nanny’s enthusiasm for geography did not return. In spite of Agnes’s entreaties the globe remained locked in the cupboard. The weather grew warmer, the marsh turned green, and the sheep grazed with their lambs gambolling around them. In May, preparations began in earnest for the birth of the son who would eventually inherit Windmarsh Court.

  Agnes and Nanny were obliged to move to freshly whitewashed bedrooms, converted from the attic storage area where Papa had stowed unused furniture and possessions that were too precious to throw away, yet too ugly or damaged to put on display. The schoolroom remained the same, but the original night and day nurseries were redecorated, and a cot installed with soft cotton sheets and knitted blankets.

  One morning at the beginning of June, Miriam was delivering breakfast while Agnes was getting dressed. She could see her across the landing, wiping her hands on her apron.

  ‘’Ave you heard the gossip?’

  ‘You know I don’t listen to telltales.’ Nanny was smiling as Miriam continued anyway.

  ‘You may recall that the doctor was sent for last week.’

  ‘And the week before that, if I remember rightly,’ Nanny said. ‘The doctor has been called out every time the mistress has sneezed or suffered the slightest alteration in her nerves.’

  ‘She is better now. Doctor Shaw blamed her illness on Cook for serving up undercooked chicken pie, and now Cook is up in arms. Apparently, the master has heard that the French style of cooking is in fashion. He’s most determined that the mistress will not ’ave to suffer food poisoning for a second time and wishes his son to ’ave the best start possible. To that end he has found a French cook. If the monsieur is agreeable, then Cook will be dismissed forthwith.’