She gave Beata a nudge, and the pair slunk off to the farleymelow – though this time it was not to share all her secrets. Beata’s excitement over her aunt’s wedding was so pronounced that Kit did not have the heart to tell her the truth. But she did relate the astounding episode about Thomas falling down the chimney, about Tish eloping with Myrtle, and about her friendship with Viscount Postgate who had recommended her for this exciting new post.
In their absence, a contrite Gwen was attempting to repair the damage she had inflicted by offering Amelia the comforting thought that there was still plenty of time for her to have children, a friend of hers had waited eleven years for her first. ‘And I’d take Kit’s engagement with a pinch of salt. I’ll believe this fellow exists when I see him. Cheer up, my dear, you and Albert’ll have a little baby soon.’
Then why did you have to say all those hurtful things? accused Amelia silently. But she dried her eyes and displayed pragmatism. ‘Oh well, if we do we do, if we don’t then it’s no good sitting around waiting for it. Me and Albert are thinking of going back into service together – me as cook, him as a butler or something. I can’t stand being on my own most of the day, and there doesn’t seem much point in Albert slaving alone to pay off a mortgage on a house that isn’t going to be filled.’
* * *
Upon return to Amelia’s on Sunday night, Kit made arrangements with a carrier to transport her to her new place of employment on Monday, but as he was unable to do this until the afternoon, she told him just to take her box and she would travel ahead on foot.
Up before sunrise the next day, she shivered and quickly put aside her intended outfit for a warmer one. After the Indian summer it was a rude shock to find autumn was upon them at last. Knotting an extra shawl around her neck, Kit took a last sip of tea, grabbed some bread and cold meat, and set off. The morning was yet dark, but the pavement rang to the sound of clogs that led towards pottery, coal mine and factory. Lank-haired girls huddled into their plaid shawls, bundles of snap in hand. Exchanging the mean gas-lit streets for open countryside, Kit strode onwards, shawl muffled around her chin. Her goal led her north, taking a similar route as if to Cragthorpe, though just before reaching the latter she had been told to veer east.
The sun finally rose. She began to enjoy her journey. It was one of those bright blue autumn mornings when the amber and gold stood out in sharp relief and her breath hit the cold air, leaving droplets on the woollen shawl beneath her chin. During the miles ahead the sun began to make itself felt, allowing her to untie the extra garment from around her neck and scratch furiously at the irritation caused by the wool to her skin. Stopping only to breakfast on the lump of bread and cold meat, she lunged on, and finally arrived at her destination in time for lunch.
The three stone towers of Postgate Park straddled a gentle slope. Upon the central tower, through which was the main entrance, sat a coat of arms – this one genuine. In general, the whole building lacked Cragthorpe’s artifice, and was somewhat smaller, its character Elizabethan. The parkland around it was thickly wooded, the gigantic spread of old cedars shielding its occupants from the industrial mayhem wreaked upon the otherwise picturesque landscape. A moment ago Kit had been in the presence of collieries, the road engrimed with coal dust, upon a ridge was the straggly outline of some industrial town, but these were soon to vanish, replaced by such rural tranquillity that she could have been in another world.
Originally there had been a moat but that was now filled in. Kit wandered across the square courtyard of the ancient building looking for a suitable way in. An archway led her only to the rear of the building where, spotting a gardener, she tripped across the still damp lawn to ask for directions. A fat old black labrador who had been lying nearby jumped up to sniff her, his eyes befuddled with sleep. Kit bent to pat him. He had bad breath.
The man who kneeled by the edge of an empty flower bed, squinted up at the robust young woman. The sun illuminated a typical raw-boned Yorkshire face, hacked from a limestone crag, though his manner was far from dour and he offered friendly advice on how to find the servants’ entrance, in addition showing an inclination to extend their chat.
‘How lucky you are to work out here instead of in a stuffy house.’ Kit’s gazed travelled up from his ragged tweed jacket to encompass the knife-edged lawns and hedges. Most of the herbaceous borders had been cut down, yet the garden was still resplendent in its autumn robes, scarlet fingers clinging to a wall, clusters of orange berries upon a backcloth of dark green. ‘I suppose this’ll be like the last place I worked at. They want to keep it all to themselves.’
Her informant surprised her. ‘Not at all. It’s for everyone’s enjoyment.’
Kit brightened, then said she was not really surprised, having experienced Viscount Postgate’s generosity before. ‘I hope his father’s as nice as he is. He’s a grand lad, isn’t he?’
‘Most certainly.’ Smiling, the gardener began to remove bedding plants from a box. Ignored, the old labrador flopped back on to the grass.
‘I wonder why they don’t have women gardeners? There seems no good reason.’
The man agreed with her. ‘Is it your intention to apply?’
She laughed. ‘I might do. Would it be bad-mannered to ask how much a gardener earns? I don’t mean yourself!’ she added quickly. Though his vowels were flat his overall accent was well-spoken and Kit thought he must have come down in the world, but was not so rude as to ask. ‘I just mean an ordinary gardener.’
The man continued to arrange his winter bedding along the black soil. ‘Oh, I believe the head man earns fifteen pounds a quarter.’
Kit reacted loudly. ‘A quarter! I’m here after the wrong job. I doubt they’ll be paying me that in a full year.’ She paid closer interest to his behaviour. ‘You’re not the head gardener then?’
He looked amused and said he was not.
It was at this precise moment, that Kit realized she was talking to Lord Garborough. Oh, the embarrassment! She stumbled to apologize, trying to remember whether she had referred to his son as Ossie and feeling even worse at his gracious response.
‘I’m not supposed to be here,’ the Earl explained. ‘Just trying to plant these out before the gardeners catch me and send me off with a flea in my ear. I so love the opportunity to get my hands in the soil, but they get so damned high-handed about it.’
Kit wondered why a curse from upper-class lips should make her blush when she was quite used to hearing it from her own kind, and said she had better remove herself to her proper place. It was an unfathomable mystery to her that the aristocracy could dress in rags and swear and grub about in the dirt and still maintain that noble manner.
Still trembling from her experience, she found the correct entrance and rang the bell, duly being escorted to the housekeeper’s parlour where she presented her letter of introduction. Ossie had been right. This woman was much kinder than Mrs Grunter, not only personally escorting Kit around the servants’ quarters and showing her to her room, but giving her a tour of the entire house. Besides being smaller than Cragthorpe and more ancient in character, with panelled chambers and carved oak fireplaces, it was much less ostentatious. Its furnishings were grand but battered and its shabby upholstery was in need of restoration. Every chamber harboured the smell of antiquity. There were no bathrooms and, from what Kit could see, no other form of heating than the huge fires. In keeping with these frugalities, she was informed that here, a parlourmaid received only fourteen pounds a year.
The housekeeper completed the tour by handing Kit an apron and cap and telling her that after lunch she could help the cook in the kitchen as there was to be a lavish dinner party tonight and all hands were required.
Rather miffed at this demotion, Kit nevertheless went to meet her new workmates in the kitchen, finding most of them more welcoming than at Cragthorpe. In fact, despite the brisk pace, the whole atmosphere was much friendlier here, imbuing Kit with the hope that she would find a niche within this new famil
y. Even Mr Popplewell the cook, a rather crabby-looking person, voiced gratitude for her assistance, asking her whilst she waited to be given luncheon would she mind going to the game larder to fetch a neck of venison. Kit was directed towards a free-standing and decorative building in the kitchen courtyard. Having previously assumed it to be a gardener’s cottage, she opined that she would be happy enough living in that, and went off to get the meat.
Upon her return to the kitchen with its great roaring fire, the nimble rolling pins and acres of pastry, she was about to hand over the venison when she detected an acrid odour and, in trying to decipher the origin of the smell she turned to see a stout, golden-haired woman enter the kitchen. A woman with a cigar in one hand and a parrot on her shoulder. It was obvious from the servants’ deference that this was her ladyship, though there was not half as much bowing and scraping as in the industrialist’s house, their mistress showing a friendly interest in how the preparations were going.
Seemingly excited by the busy atmosphere, the parrot danced up and down on her shoulder and let out a shout of, ‘Oh, bugger!’
‘Disgusting bird, be quiet,’ ordered her ladyship without passion. ‘I trust you’re not going to mess about with that, Cook?’ Her pale grey eyes inspected the venison.
Popplewell, a wavy-haired wisp of a man, just skin and bone and teeth, wore a fixed smile. ‘No, indeed, ma’am, good plain food that’s what his lordship likes, does he not?’
After a sociable chat, in which the blue and yellow parrot appeared to join, her ladyship departed, leaving a pall of tobacco smoke in her wake. Immediately, the cook dropped his rictal guise and began to waft violently at the air. ‘The Countess and her blasted cigar smoke – it’ll hang around for days! Good plain food, that’s what his lordship wants and that’s what his lordship will have, despite the fact that he’s employed the finest cook in Yorkshire. But does he give a hoss’s rectum for my feelings? No! Good plain boring old food – don’t mess about with it indeed! Why doesn’t he just go buy pie and peas from a barrow?’ The man suffered constant frustration at not being allowed to give rein to his creativity. He almost threw the neck of venison at an underling. ‘You might as well do it, for all I’m appreciated!’
Never having witnessed such a violent display at home, Kit was rather frightened and sought to appease him. ‘Well, this looks delicious.’ She sat down to the luncheon that had been provided, devouring a mouthful and closing her eyes in appreciation whilst a host of white pinafores hurried back and forth around her. ‘I wish I could afford to employ you, Mr Popplewell. I hate cooking.’
‘You obviously like eating though,’ said one of the workers.
Popplewell noticed Kit’s face redden. ‘Nowt wrong with being well-built! I like a woman who enjoys her food. It’s a real compliment to a cook. You could teach them upstairs a thing or two. Here, have one of these gooseberry tarts for afterwards!’
Kit licked her lips, glad to have made at least one friend, and formed an artless observation. ‘You’ve got a lovely voice, Mr Popplewell.’ His vowels were much broader than her own, his Es formed with great precision, as if elongated. No Ts were dropped at the end of his words, as in her own speech; this alphabetical letter emerging from his lips with a gentle tap at the air. ‘Where do you come from?’
‘Beautiful Barnsley,’ he told her, somewhat calmer now, though his forehead remained knotted. ‘And thank you for your kind compliment, my dear. It makes a refreshing change.’
After a few more mouthfuls, her face showed bemusement. ‘Tell me, if her ladyship is a countess, why isn’t he a count?’
‘Mr Popplewell thinks he is,’ quipped a passing footman to his colleague, and escaped before anyone could rebuke him.
Kit sighed. ‘I don’t understand all these different titles.’
‘It’s not our place to understand,’ said the cook, vigorously beating an egg, ‘just to serve – and what do we serve?’
‘Good plain food!’ chorused everyone.
Glad that the cook’s temper was as quick to subside as it had been to erupt, Kit continued with her meal, during which she was asked by one of the numerous kitchen maids, Edith, ‘So if you don’t like cooking, what’re you doing here then?’
Kit explained that she was normally a parlourmaid and hoped to continue in that role after today.
‘Have you worked for nobility before?’ asked another girl, Mary.
Kit’s information about Cragthorpe Hall was not well received. ‘Oh, self-made gentry,’ sniffed Mary.
Popplewell jumped to Kit’s aid. ‘What’s so special about the aristocracy? They go to the privy same as us, don’t they?’
Mary conceded with a laugh that this was true. ‘You never get any great beauties in the aristocracy, do you?’ pondered another girl, Lizzie. ‘Too much inbreeding. You need a bit of mongrel blood for a pretty face, that’s what I say.’
Lips curled around her fork, Kit caught Popplewell’s eye and both grinned, but her mousy, snub-nosed companion didn’t seem to notice the irony in what she had just said. ‘Have the Earl and Countess got a house in London?’
‘They’ve got houses all over. Short o’ nowt they’ve got. The only thing they lack is a recognition of talent.’ Popplewell remained offended by his mistress’s interference.
Another question was fired at her. ‘So why did you leave your last job then?’
Kit had already decided not to repeat past mistakes and tried to sound humble, but could not help a certain amount of name dropping. ‘Well, I wasn’t very popular with Mr and Mrs Dolphin so Viscount Postgate offered me a job here – saved me bacon, he did.’
‘Aye, he’s a good lad is Ossie,’ nodded Popplewell.
Others agreed, sparking off a bout of tales about the Viscount.
Finally, though, the conversation was cut short by the cook’s directive that the dinner party was to be tonight not next week and could they all please get a move on? His orders continued non-stop throughout the afternoon, directed also at Kit now. Hard work or no, Kit decided that she owed gratitude to Ossie Postgate for changing her fortunes.
* * *
Routine here was much the same as at Cragthorpe Hall with daily prayers in the hall and bedtime cocoa, the only difference being that on Sundays the entire household would go across the park to the village church, the family walking alongside their servants in order that grooms and coachmen could be free to observe the Sabbath too. For the days in between, Kit was glad to find herself once more in the role of parlourmaid, this bringing her more into contact with the Earl and his wife. Far from expecting his servants to blend in with the woodwork, Lord Garborough would pause to enjoy a brief chat with his parlourmaid should they meet on the stairs. Even so, he remained something of a paradox to Kit. His raw-boned face would not have looked amiss under a layer of coal dust, and indeed his language often descended to that of the miners. The one difference being that instead of the miner’s air of resignation, there was supreme confidence over who he was, this warning Kit to curb any attempt at familiarity.
There was no similar tendency with her ladyship. Despite her eccentricity, maybe because of it, it was quite obvious she was of the aristocracy. True, there were laughter lines set into her face, but these came from her ability to be nice to everyone whatever their station in life, yet the lines extended only from nose to chin, there were few around the eyes, and Kit had learned from past mistakes that a smile did not necessarily mean genuine friendship. However, she had no complaints about her treatment and much preferred the Countess’s no-nonsense attitude to Mrs Dolphin’s double standards.
Together, Lord and Lady Garborough were a devoted couple – although the Countess seemed similarly devoted to her parrot which accompanied her wherever she went, even at the dinner table, where it would wander at will up and down the linen cloth until it found something that took its fancy. Kit discovered that there were other offspring besides Viscount Postgate: fifteen-year-old twin daughters, Kerenza and Ursula – neither of th
em at all demure – followed by six other children whose names Kit had difficulty in remembering. All were to be seen careering around the house in total unrestraint. If there were rules then Kit failed to see them. Not that the Earl’s children were ill-mannered, for they had very pleasant natures and were always very polite to the servants. Because of the younger offspring there had to be nursemaids and a governess, but these melted into the vast domestic army and Kit rarely saw them, other than to exchange a polite good morning, which was more often than not ignored. The Earl might address everyone as if they were equally important, but the servant hierarchy retained its airs and graces.
Amongst those who did give her the time of day, Kit had struck up a rapport with Mr Popplewell. Had she worked in the kitchen things might have been different, for his rages were very alarming. But because he only ever saw her at repast, and because she had nothing but praise for the meals he provided, he had taken her to his bosom and whenever she had occasion to visit the kitchen would summon her in the eager manner of a lovesick youth to taste his latest concoction, his insertion of a syrupy spoon between her lips taking on an almost erotic quality as she closed her eyes and murmured throaty appreciation.
Others were to benefit from Kit’s new post, her brothers’ children in particular, for at the beginning of December, the younger honourables were made to clear out their toy cupboard with Nanny and give their unwanted toys and books to those less fortunate. The Earl, knowing Kit’s brothers were colliers and being a more paternalistic mine-owner than the one who employed the Kilmasters, instructed her to choose a small item for each of their offspring. These were duly wrapped, along with the sugar mice she herself had bought, and taken to Monty’s house on her latest visit to Ralph Royd, for the one bad thing about Christmas at Postgate Park was that, with a houseful of guests, her services could not be spared and thus she would not be going home for the festive season.
A Sense of Duty Page 26