‘But what do you call it?’ Alice, too, wanted to know.
Sarah gave a sound of exasperation and was overzealous in her task, drawing forth a mew of protest from the baby as she gathered his tiny ankles in one hand and almost yanked him off the table to shove a fresh napkin underneath. ‘It’s just part of his body!’
‘But—’
‘Kit, you’re expert at changing the subject,’ muttered her sister-in-law, covering the offending object with a corner of the flannel. ‘Think of something.’
Kit pondered over the scrawny new-born legs that barely protruded from the napkin, reminding her of a plucked fowl. ‘What did that chicken taste like?’
A gasp of ingratitude. ‘Good at rubbing it in, aren’t you?’
‘Well, you said change the subject!’ Kit hooked her forefinger over her lip, trying to think of some way to ingratiate herself. ‘Here, let me help you – you shouldn’t be out of bed.’
‘When have I got time to lie in bed? I’ve got to go down for my churching later.’ Sarah gathered little Probyn in her arms. ‘Anyway, I haven’t been up long. Rhoda cooked the tea. A very good job she made of it too by the look of it. There, get it on the table now, Rhoda, your father will be in in a moment.’ At her further instruction the soiled napkin was whisked off the table by another daughter and a cloth laid in its place, plates and cutlery carried in by a smaller girl. ‘She cooked that chicken yesterday too, which, as it happens, was very tasty – but I’ll still be having words with that Mrs Kelly about her wretched dog when I’m out and about – though much good it will probably do. She doesn’t even look after her children, let alone the dog. Dirty little arabs. Vulgar creatures, all of them. But what can you expect when the father’s a drunkard?’
Two of her little girls exchanged secret smiles. They loved their mother’s Welsh accent, the way she said words like der-tee and vol-gar and cree-tures, which Aunt Kit often imitated for their entertainment – though not in Mother’s presence, of course.
Indifferent to their amusement, Sarah went on, ‘They might live in the same street, and the same sort of house but their morals leave a lot to be desired – shame the whole village, they do. Water costs nothing. They must roll on the ground to get that filthy.’
Forbidden to associate with the Catholic family, the young Kilmasters had adopted their mother’s prejudice. ‘Teacher made me sit next to Cissie Kelly last week,’ said Rhoda, adding hurriedly. ‘I didn’t talk to her, though.’
‘I should think not.’ Sarah winced and put a hand to her aching back.
‘Didn’t talk to who?’
At Monty’s voice Kit assumed a guilty posture and awaited his admonishment.
‘Kellys,’ provided Sarah.
‘Huh! They’d populate the world if we let ’em.’ Monty examined the youngest child in his wife’s arms, speaking to the babe. ‘But we won’t, will we, little chap? Noo, indeed. For every one o’ theirs we’ll provide a good Wesleyan child.’
Kit and Beata shared a glance as if to express an opinion that it was not Monty who had to do all the running about after these children.
Unfortunately he lifted his eyes in time to catch it. ‘Got zommat to say for yourself, have ’ee?’ His query was directed at Kit, who hung her head. Others in the room, sensing a bad atmosphere, made themselves scarce.
‘No! Nothing you can zay, is there? Get another job did ’ee?’
Still mute, Kit shook her head.
Sarah made a noise and turned a keen eye on her. ‘What sort of reference did Mrs Larder give you?’ The ensuing look of guilt was enough.
‘God a’ mercy on us!’ Face pink with suppressed anger, Monty told Kit, ‘Well, you can do some work afore you get fed! Ethel’s been at it all day like the rest of us. Go on!’
Kit rushed outside. Enveloped in a black cloud of dust, Ethel had almost finished beating her father’s trousers and jacket, but was happy to let another clean his boots and rinse his socks. Kit hung the latter on the line before daring finally to come in.
Monty was seated at the head of the table, his harassed wife indicating for others to join him whilst she herself laid the baby in the sideboard drawer that had been lined with a blanket. He was still annoyed.
‘I can’t understand you, Kit. I really can’t. You’ve no man to look after ’ee and like as not never will, yet you seem to think you can chuck a good job up whenever you feel like it – Lord, we humbly thank Thee for the meal Thou has provided, amen.’ After this perfunctory grace he delved a spoon into various bowls of vegetables, finally transferring a large portion of mashed potato to his plate.
Kit lifted her head from prayer to accept the spoon thrust at her rather rudely by her brother. ‘I didn’t chuck it up, I got the sack.’
‘Through your own daft fault.’ Monty’s knife and fork were poised to eat, the criticism he had received from his father over similar transgressions long forgotten. ‘Who’s going to give ’ee a job with no reference – by the way, I hope I got a clean shirt for class meeting tonight?’ This was directed at his wife. A grim Sarah replied that he had.
‘I thought I might try a new direction,’ mused Kit, heaping more vegetables upon her plate.
‘You’ve exhausted every direction there is!’ complained Sarah. ‘Unless it’s your intent to be a lady of leisure.’
‘You should try the stage,’ said Rhoda, her sisters chorusing agreement that their aunt was a wonderful entertainer.
Monty was shocked by the very suggestion. ‘An actress? They’re little better than – you know what!’
‘What?’ Kit frowned.
‘Babylon,’ replied her brother. ‘And we’re having none of that here. You’re not in a position to pick and choose.’
Sorry for Kit, and ill at ease with the friction at the tea table, Beata made a tentative contribution. ‘Maybe Amelia can put in a good word for you at the hall.’
The condemnation came to an abrupt stop. ‘Oh, thank heaven someone can talk sense!’ Sarah lowered herself gingerly on to a chair, dealt her daughter a congratulatory pat, then picked up her own cutlery. Amelia had been at the same workplace since she was twelve years old and was highly thought of by her employer. ‘They’ll want someone to replace her when she gets married.’
‘They won’t know what they’re letting themselves in for,’ grunted her husband.
Kit knew that Amelia would be none too keen to work alongside her sister, and she herself shared this view. ‘I’m not sure—’
‘Be told!’ Monty directed his knife at her. ‘First thing tomorrow, you’re off to Cragthorpe Hall, and woe betide ’ee if you come home without a job.’
Sarah, who despaired of ever being rid of Kit, manufactured a beam. ‘Right! Now that’s all settled perhaps we can eat our meal without getting indigestion – oh, and whatever you wear tomorrow, Kit, just make sure it’s not one of your ridiculous hats!’
6
Cragthorpe Hall was only half the distance to travel from home as her last place of work had been, and at a different point on the compass, being nearer to Castleford than to Leeds. Leaving her box behind, an act of pessimism in Sarah’s opinion, Kit promised she would not come home without some kind of employment, but declared there was little point in lugging heavy cargo three miles if they did not want her to start immediately.
Kit had always assumed that Amelia was indulging in the usual showing off when she had spoken about Cragthorpe Hall resembling a castle and the folk who owned it dripping in money. That assumption was quickly expunged upon arrival outside the massive wrought-iron gates gilded with what appeared to be a coat of arms – although the family had no title, to Kit’s knowledge. A skilled landscape artist had granted protection for its occupants from any glimpse of evil done to the countryside; the mansion was entirely secluded from the surrounding coal mines by undulating pasture and groups of trees. Kit stood there mesmerized, her gaze moving along the driveway to the rambling Gothic house with its towers and turrets, flying buttresses and vin
e-laced cloisters, and the innumerable chimney stacks, her first thought being to wonder what it would be like to have to light all those fires alone – but of course there would be lots of servants here, she would be just a cog in the wheel. Amelia had told her there were about twenty-five staff. Only now did Kit believe her, revising her intended approach to whoever should open the door. Indeed, she first had to find that door.
Apprehension tweaking her breast, she followed the line of the iron railings, searching for a servants’ gate, and finally came to the appropriate entrance. Once through and embarked upon the correct route, she found herself separated from the rest of the grounds by shrubbery but still with an intermittent view of the house. There was some sort of repair work being done to its numerous windows. A series of ladders reduced the dignity of the east wing, where glaziers struggled to install a huge sheet of plate glass – or were they removing it? Yes, Kit decided they were, for the rest of the windows had small leaded lights. She watched their precarious operation for a while, then, heart thumping at such an adventure, she turned her head, allowing her eyes to roam over the vast park that flanked the east wing of the house, where red and fallow deer grazed in the dappled shade of lime trees. Enthralled, even by the kitchen gardens, by the time Kit found the door to the servants’ quarters she was desperate to reside here and when her knock was answered she donned her most enthusiastic smile and introduced herself.
‘Good morning! I’m Amelia Kilmaster’s sister, Katherine. I wonder if I might speak to her, if that would be no inconvenience?’
The maid expressed amazement, her eyes taking in the caller’s remarkable height, before inviting her into an enormous kitchen that was three times as large as Monty’s entire house, and informing her companions in a gruff voice that matched her appearance, ‘There’s a giant here to see Amelia – says she’s her sister!’
Contrary to Kit’s expectations, there was little industry in the kitchen, the staff having time to stand and stare open-mouthed at this monumental girl who became rather awkward under their inspection and hoped her sister would not be too long in coming.
To divert their attention, she tried to recall what Amelia had said on Sunday. ‘My sister tells me your master’s coming up from his London house shortly.’
Once distracted, the staff were quite friendly, going about their leisurely business. ‘Aye, we won’t be stood round gossiping like this then,’ laughed Lily, the maid who had let her in, a strong-looking girl with the protruding jaw of a bulldog, its misalignment causing the lower front teeth to be constantly bared, more of a snarl than a smile. The only pretty thing about Lily was the broderie anglaise trim on her cap. ‘The family’s arriving tomorrow. Most of the servants are coming on ahead this afternoon, Cook amongst ’em. That’s why we’re making the most of it now. Would you like a cup o’ tea?’ At Kit’s grateful acceptance she picked up a china pot, another maid providing a plate of biscuits. ‘Your sister might be a while in coming. It’s not so bad for us with no one to cook for, but the upper servants are run off their feet getting all the dust sheets off and the house in order.’
Kit smiled and said, ‘That must take a pretty while. I’ve never seen a house as big as this.’ Her gaze rose twenty feet to a ceiling that was louvred to let steam escape, then descended again to examine the oak cupboards and shelves lined with countless utensils, copper and brass pans, gleaming fish kettles, huge sinks, the great kitchen range that almost took up a whole wall, the massive table where all the preparation was done. She pointed to an unfamiliar contraption. ‘Is that one of them gas ovens? I’ve only ever seen a picture of one in a book. What’s it like to cook on?’
Her query drew a combined groan from the others and a mysterious comment from Lily. ‘It hasn’t seen much cooking – I don’t think that’s what the mistress bought it for. Here’s your tea. Sorry, I can’t invite you into the sitting room to have it but we daren’t let Cook catch us sat doing nowt.’ An air of polite curiosity took over. ‘Was it summat important you wanted to see your sister about?’
‘Well,’ Kit looked for somewhere to sit but there was not even a stool, forcing her to drink her tea standing up like the others. ‘As our Amelia’s getting married soon,’ she knew she was not revealing any secret, Amelia had told everyone who would listen about her coming nuptials, ‘I was hoping to fill her shoes when she leaves.’
The cordiality evaporated, a bellow of protest arising from Lily and her peers. ‘Eh, there’s others in line before you, you know! You can’t just walk in and get a parlourmaid’s job just like that, you have to work your way up. I’ve been here three year.’
Kit was trying to make amends when Amelia entered wearing her perpetual look of harassment, the carroty frizz exploding from a white beribboned cap. ‘What’s happened?’ The impromptu appearance of a relative conjured images of a pit disaster, though she did not voice it for fear of tempting fate, asking instead, ‘Is something wrong at home?’
The vociferous Lily jumped in. ‘No, she’s after my bloody job!’
Kit immediately sought to allay both women’s anxiety. ‘No! I just came to see if you’d put in a good word for me. I was forced to leave Mrs Larder’s residence because they’ve had to go abroad suddenly. They wanted me to go with them but I couldn’t leave Yorkshire—’
‘Nor me neither, love,’ agreed a different maid.
‘—I don’t want to steal anybody’s job. I don’t mind what I do,’ finished Kit.
Guessing the truth beneath her sister’s fabrication, Amelia was annoyed at being put in such an importunate position, did not want to be around when Kit’s indolent nature was discovered, as surely it would. Pale lips set in a line, she told her, ‘I don’t have any influence here, you know. There’s no saying they’ll employ you.’
‘Cook’s here!’ As the yelp went up, issued by one who had been posted as lookout, the maids scattered and tried to make themselves look busy in time for the entrance of an extremely corpulent figure who was accompanied by half a dozen men and women bearing hampers.
With nowhere to run, Amelia stood pale-faced as the cook’s entourage took over the kitchen, swarming around unpacking hampers. Kit was fixed to the spot too, overwhelmed by the turbulence that had overcome this hitherto peaceful place.
‘Amelia, shouldn’t you be upstairs?’ A high-pitched voice for one so fat.
‘Sorry for getting in your way, Mrs Hellawell,’ whined Amelia, ‘But my sister here came looking for a job.’
From out of the mound of lard that was Cook jutted a tiny pointed chin, a button nose and surprisingly youthful eyes that were the most beautiful shade of green Kit had ever seen. Though her figure looked middle-aged she was probably not ten years older than the girls she dominated. ‘Now, that’s what I like to see, a big strong lass!’ A nod of approval as she took off her hat and shoved it into waiting hands. ‘I’ll have her.’
Amelia cringed, fully aware of how deceptive her sister’s looks were, but glad at least that she would not have to work alongside her. However, unwilling to be relegated to the kitchen, Kit prompted her with a hefty nudge. Amelia refused to come to her aid, remaining mute, but at that point the housekeeper entered, demanding to know why one of her parlourmaids was neglecting her duties and in an effort to save herself Amelia blurted, ‘My sister wanted to apply as my replacement when I leave, Mrs Grunter!’
‘Er, hold your hosses, I want her in my kitchen!’ objected Mrs Hellawell, palms resting on heavily corseted hips, but one look from the housekeeper silenced her. With amazing force of character for one so tiny, Mrs Grunter had this effect on everyone, save the steward who was up in London ensuring the smooth transition of his master’s move to the North. Delivering a petulant shrug, Cook went about her business, bawling at her own staff, ‘Come along, get this stuff unpacked – as soon as these people get out of our way, that is!’
The diminutive figure in black with a white-frilled cap of lace and ribbons, a chatelaine at her waist, hands like delicate porcelain, an
d the eye of a pike, reverted her gaze to assess the applicant. ‘Your name is?’
‘Katherine – Kit, ma’am.’
‘And what previous position did you hold, Katherine Kit?’ There was no twinkle to show if Mrs Grunter was making fun or not.
‘Parlourmaid, ma’am.’
Amelia blushed at her sister’s lie.
‘Very well, come with me – Amelia, back to your duties!’ The formidable Mrs Grunter led the way out of the kitchen, along a corridor with several turnings and into her own territory which consisted of the still room, a store cupboard, and her own parlour that was lined with china cupboards, linen presses and jars of preserves and, to Kit, was a miniature palace in itself. Though there were several comfortable armchairs draped with lacy antimacassars and plump cushions, Kit was directed to a hard wooden one where she was forced to perch ramrod straight whilst awaiting further interview, hoping her plainness of dress and her pose were sufficiently demure.
‘And who was your employer, Katherine – or would you prefer to be called Kit?’
‘Whatever pleases you, ma’am.’ Kit tried to pierce the woman’s reserve with a friendly but polite response. ‘I worked for Mrs Larder. She lives near Leeds.’
‘Never heard of her. Allow me to see your references.’ A dainty hand was outstretched, but was to be unrewarded.
‘I haven’t got them yet, ma’am. You see, I only left yesterday. Mr and Mrs Larder had to leave the country rather suddenly and—’
‘Not wanted by the police were they?’
‘Oh no, ma’am!’
‘It was a joke.’
Discountenanced by the lack of animation in the grey eyes, Kit gave a rather exaggerated laugh. ‘Oh, very funny, ma’am! Well, as I said they had to leave suddenly for America – I think it was family business. Anyway, they wanted me to go with them, but I prefer to bide here. What with all the rush they didn’t have my reference ready when it was time for me to leave, so the master very kindly promised to drop it in the evening post to my brother’s house. It wasn’t there when I left this morning but I should have it by tomorrow.’
A Sense of Duty Page 10