The Downstairs Maid

by Rosie Clarke

  Emily had just finished washing the silver when Mrs Hattersley called to her from the kitchen, and she rushed in to discover that Anne was there looking flustered.

  ‘Miss Amy asked for Mary,’ she said. ‘She wants some hot water. I can’t take it because I’ve got to iron this dress for Lady Barton. You’ll have to go, Emily. You can’t make a mistake with that …’

  ‘But Mrs Hattersley needs me …’

  ‘I can spare you for ten minutes,’ Mrs Hattersley said, ‘but come back as quick as you can.’

  Emily wiped her hands on a towel, and filled a brass can with hot water from the kettle on the range. She followed Anne from the kitchen, up the back stairs and along the landing to the bedrooms used by the family.

  ‘It’s just along there,’ Anne said. ‘Knock before you go in, and don’t forget she’s upset.’

  Miss Amy hadn’t dined downstairs since she’d been forced to break her engagement to Sir Arthur, though she did go into the garden sometimes. She’d sent back the trays Mrs Hattersley sent up to her, the food untouched. Emily knocked cautiously and then entered when she was told. She’d thought Miss Amy might be crying but she was sitting on a stool looking at herself in the dressing mirror.

  ‘Put the water down, Mary, and then you can do my hair for me.’

  ‘It’s Emily, miss. Mary had toothache and went to the dentist.’

  Miss Amy turned to look at her, an expression of annoyance in her eyes. Emily thought she had been crying earlier, because her nose looked red and her skin was blotchy.

  ‘I could try to do your hair, miss. I’m not as good as Mary, but I could put it up in a simple knot – if that would do?’

  ‘Just do the best you can with it then.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  Emily took up the brush and began to stroke it over Miss Amy’s long dark hair. It had a slight wave in it and seemed to fall into place naturally at the sides of her face when Emily gathered it into a knot and fastened it with pins from the glass tray on the dressing table.

  ‘Be as quick as you can. I was tardy in dressing and my father will not be pleased if I’m late.’

  ‘I’ve finished, miss.’ She handed her the silver hand mirror. Miss Amy glanced at herself and then in the dressing mirror at the back. ‘It will do for now I suppose. Can you fasten my dress at the back?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  Emily did as she asked and was dismissed. She ran down the stairs, knowing that the cook was rushed off her feet and that she would be needed upstairs in twenty minutes. Mrs Hattersley would not be very pleased with her, but she’d had to do what Miss Amy asked, and she’d felt a bit sorry for her. If she was forcing herself to go downstairs and greet her father’s guests she must be very brave. Emily admired her for that even though she was a bit of a snob.

  ‘There is a lot of food left over from the luncheon,’ Mrs Hattersley said the next morning. ‘We can eat most of it ourselves, but some is going to be wasted. Do you fancy a walk to the village, Emily? The vicar is holding a little supper at the church hall. He gives free food to anyone who attends his Bible readings.’

  Emily had just finished scrubbing the pine table-top. She took the dirty water through to the little scullery at the back and tipped it into the deep stone sink, then came back.

  ‘Yes, I know about the vicar’s tea parties. Ma used to send me when I was small. We all had cakes and trifles, things most of us never have at home.’

  ‘I dare say they were sent down from the manor. Lady Prior has always been generous that way. She may be a tartar to her family, but the poor of the village can always rely on her to send food and money when they’re in trouble.’

  ‘Shall I go alone? I can carry two baskets.’

  ‘Pop upstairs and put your coat on, Emily. The sun is warm but you’ll find the wind cold.’

  ‘Is there anything you want me to do here before I go?’

  ‘Not that I can think of. If I need her, Mary can help. You did her work yesterday and so it won’t hurt her to do some of yours.’

  ‘I didn’t mind. It was interesting to see the lovely dishes and the silver they use upstairs all set out instead of when they come back dirty. Miss Amy’s room is lovely, but a bit dark because of the colours. I enjoyed helping her, but I wasn’t able to do her hair the way Mary does.’

  ‘There was talk of Mary being Miss Amy’s personal maid but I’m not sure what will happen now the wedding’s off.’

  ‘Mary would go to London and various places with Miss Amy then, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘I’ve got no use for travelling all over the show,’ Mrs Hattersley said with a sniff. ‘Don’t you go getting ideas above yourself, Emily. It takes years to learn how to look after a lady’s things properly.’

  ‘Ma was a lady’s maid before she married. She taught me how to care for silk and lace, even though we didn’t have much, except second-hand stuff, and how to get stains off a skirt.’

  Cook had finished packing the baskets. She set them down on the table with a bang, as if annoyed.

  ‘Stop that dreaming, girl, and take these baskets to the vicarage. Don’t dally on the way. I know how long it takes so no dawdling with young men.’

  ‘I don’t have any young men to dawdle with,’ Emily laughed. ‘Maybe I’m not clever enough to be a lady’s maid yet, but I intend to be more than I am one day.’

  ‘You’ll do well enough with me. If I teach you to cook you’ll be able to find a job anywhere. Take my advice and stick to cooking. Being a lady’s maid is hard work and even longer hours than ours sometimes.’

  Emily picked up her baskets and left the kitchen, walking through the small, enclosed courtyard and the large vegetable gardens behind it. She was glad of her coat because the wind was icy, though the sun felt lovely on her face. The weather had been cool lately, except for the odd warm day. She thought about what Mrs Hattersley had told her about working hard and becoming her assistant. If she learned how to cook delicious food the way Mrs Hattersley did she might stand a chance of a better job – perhaps in a hotel or even her own small teashop. It would be a good life, better than scrubbing the scullery floor each morning before six.

  Yet her taste of waiting on Miss Amy had made her feel that she might prefer to be a lady’s personal maid. Mrs Hattersley had spoken of long hours and Emily knew that was true. Her mother had told her about sitting up to two, three or four o’clock in the morning when there was an important ball. During the London season that might happen for five or six nights out of the week, but against that was the pleasure of handling beautiful clothes and seeing her lady dressed in her finery and jewels. However, Miss Amy would pick Mary unless she advertised for someone new, because Mary knew how she liked her hair.

  What was Emily doing, thinking of a future in service? This job was only supposed to be for a short time, just until her father was well and able to earn a living again.

  She began to whistle a tune. So far, working at the manor hadn’t been as bad as she’d feared. She walked briskly because the wind was cool, lifting her hand to wave to one of the gardeners. They were all much friendlier now and Emily was used to fetching the vegetables they needed for dinner, getting to know her way about and the people who worked here. Two of the gardeners were older men with families, but there was also a young lad who was learning his trade. He did a lot of the digging and fetching and carrying; a bit like her, Emily thought. At the moment she was a maid of all work, but she didn’t intend to spend the rest of her life this way. She wanted something better – and now that she’d seen a little of the house upstairs she thought she’d rather be above than below stairs.

  The house was grand in its proportions with many more rooms than she’d yet seen, the windows small paned but letting in plenty of light because there were enough of them, not dark upstairs as it was in some of the rooms below stairs. The furniture was grand too – at least most of it was. Emily thought some of the wooden-seated chairs she’d seen were not much better than her Pa had in
his barns, except that these were in better condition and well polished. Lady Prior seemed to be a hoarder and there were oak hutches, chairs and tables set at intervals all along the landings. On each of the tables stood a tall vase made of porcelain with odd-looking figures Emily thought might be Chinese painted all over them, and there were tall silver candlesticks and big brass bowls that she thought must be filled with rose petals, because there was a lovely smell.

  It was a strange household, because everyone seemed to have their own favourite rooms and they furnished them differently. Emily hadn’t seen inside most of them herself, but Tomas had told her what they were like. June did most of the polishing but Tomas helped her do the various parlours and he’d described the furniture in the grand drawing room. He’d told Emily there were far too many objects that needed dusting and June said she spent half her time polishing bits of glass and photograph frames.

  ‘She can’t need the half of them,’ June had complained. ‘It takes twice as long to get round as it should because of all the clutter. Some of it is precious but some of it’s no more than rubbish in my opinion.’

  Emily wondered what it would be like to live amongst such clutter and decided that if she were a part of the family she would sweep half of it away and have new. Laughing to herself, because it was never going to happen, she began to run.

  Chapter 18

  Emily realised she’d taken the wrong turning once more. After her return from the vicarage, Mrs Hattersley had sent her for more vegetables, but instead of the kitchen courtyard she’d ended up in the rose garden. The roses were not yet in flower but she could see the buds beginning to form on the bushes and guessed that they would be glorious in summer. From here she could see the house to advantage, its windows gleaming in the sunshine. The yellow brickwork looked in better condition here at the side of the house and there was something beautiful about the clean lines of its architecture, as if it had been built at a different period to the older buildings at the back. She thought this wing had probably been added on at a later date to the main wing; it looked like some of the glossy pictures of buildings in London she’d seen in books, which had been described as mid-Georgian period with a French influence. She wished there was someone she could ask about things like that, but Mrs Hattersley probably wouldn’t know and Mr Payne never had time to gossip with the likes of Emily.

  Dreaming again! She was in the wrong place and she wasn’t sure where she’d made her mistake. When would she learn to tell her right from her left? She’d better retrace her steps and hope one of the gardeners would set her right. Miss Amy had said something about a water butt …

  Just as she was about to turn back she heard a voice and halted. Someone was talking – or rather declaiming aloud. It sounded odd and Emily crept closer to the source until she could see the man walking up and down the rose arbour. It was Mr Nicolas. She’d hardly seen him since she’d been working at the manor and her heart took a flying leap as she remembered their dance. Looking at him from her hiding place, she thought he had the most beautiful face of any man she’d ever seen. Thin and sensitive and … just lovely. What on earth was he doing?

  ‘Moonlight in her hair …

  I turn and she is there …

  But when I reach for her she is gone …

  And all the bright pleasures …’

  He stopped abruptly and shook his head. ‘No, not pleasures. Shorter – has to be shorter.’

  ‘And all the sweet joys of life are gone …

  For in her grave my beloved lies …

  And my soul in despair cries …

  Out and only the dark cold earth may ease …

  My pain and give me peace …’

  As Emily watched he ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head as if in pain, clearly dissatisfied with his work.

  ‘No, no, it’s not right … no soul … no soul …’

  Mr Nicolas was a poet and obviously he was in some torment over his work. To Emily it was like a play or the pictures, but funnier. She was caught up by the drama of his torment and a sound that was part sympathy, part laughter escaped her.

  He whirled round looking for the source of the sound but a bower of rose bushes hid Emily from his view. As he took a step towards her, she ran back the way she had come, not wanting him to know that she had witnessed his struggle to compose a poem he thought worthy. Emily thought the words beautiful – and he was beautiful, so fine and tortured and sensitive – but he thought his work was no good and he would not wish to be overheard. Besides, if she were caught spying on the family when she ought to be at work she might be dismissed. She saw the old green-painted water butt and made a beeline for it as she remembered what Miss Amy had told her.

  This time she took the right turning and soon found herself in the familiar kitchen courtyard. An old wooden chair was outside the door and Billy the boot boy was cleaning a pair of gentleman’s riding boots at a bench he’d set up, polishing them with a brush for all he was worth. A cat lay dozing in the sunshine and by the look of it she was expecting kittens soon. Billy grinned at her as she passed and Emily smiled, enjoying the sound of his cheerful whistling. Mrs Hattersley looked at her suspiciously as she entered the large room.

  ‘And where have you been, miss?’ she asked. ‘You’ve taken your time.’

  ‘I got lost again,’ Emily apologised. ‘I’ll make a start on the vegetables as soon as I’ve washed the dishes.’

  ‘You’ll lose your head one of these days, my girl. Get on with you before I lose my patience.’

  Emily was laughing as she went into the scullery. It was worth a little scold to have witnessed what she’d seen and heard.

  Emily could hear an odd noise in the pantry, a scuffling sound that made her wonder. She opened the door and went in, giving a little cry of alarm as she saw the mouse scuttle away and disappear behind some jars and tins on the floor. It had come from the second shelf and on investigation Emily discovered it had been at a sack of dried fruit. There was either more than one or it had been going on for a while, because a hole had been nibbled through at one corner. She picked the little sack up and took it through to the kitchen to show Mrs Hattersley.

  ‘Mice!’ the cook shuddered. ‘I hate those things. Filthy little beasts! This ought to have been put in a stone jar. Did you leave it out, Emily?’

  ‘I’ve never seen it before this morning.’

  ‘It was probably the last girl. Come to think of it, it’s months since I ordered these. Well, I’ll have to throw this out now.’

  ‘Only one corner has been nibbled. Could you use just the top half if I put the fruit in a jar?’

  ‘What are you talking about! Throw it out. I won’t use contaminated stuff in my kitchen – and tell Tomas to set some traps.’

  Emily took the sack through to the back room and placed it in a basket. Her mother wouldn’t be so fussy. She’d use the top half and throw the stuff near where the mouse had been out for the birds.

  Tomas came in as she was washing the shelf down and making certain nothing else was at risk from the mice. He shook his head when she told him that Mrs Hattersley wanted traps set.

  ‘The damned creatures seem to know what you’re after. They nibble the cheese and escape before the pin drops. I hardly ever manage to catch one.’

  ‘You need to find where they get in and block it. That’s what Pa did – and we had a cat that caught any that found their way in.’

  ‘A cat?’ Tomas nodded. ‘There are plenty of strays in the stable. I’ll shut one in here tonight. Cook will never know the difference.’

  ‘Do you think you ought?’ Emily looked at him doubtfully. ‘Make sure there’s nothing the cat can get at or we’ll have trouble from Mrs Hattersley.’

  Tomas glanced round. ‘Nothing here to hurt I can see. Just make sure the meat and fish are on the top shelf and covered. I’m telling you, a cat is twice as good as a trap.’

  ‘Emily!’ Mrs Hattersley’s cry of anguish brought her running fro
m the scullery the next morning. The cook was staring at the kitchen table and quivering with temper. ‘What’s wrong?’ Emily couldn’t see anything on the table but the plate with Lord Barton’s kippers. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘A cat – that’s what,’ Mrs Hattersley said. ‘It sneaked in here and jumped on the table while my back was turned. I caught it sniffing at those kippers. I scared it off but the damage is done. How can I serve those to his lordship now?’

  Emily looked closer. She could see one set of teeth marks where the cat had taken a quick bite before being driven away.

  ‘We could cut that bit off the side and just run the rest under the tap. The heat of the frying pan will kill any germs – besides, it’s only touched a little bit on the edge here.’

  ‘I can’t and won’t serve those to his lordship.’

  ‘I’ll have them then,’ Emily said. ‘Kippers are a real treat – but what will you give his lordship?’

  Mrs Hattersley looked thoughtful. ‘He’s fond of his kippers and he always has them on a Friday. What am I to do?’

  ‘Why don’t I just do this …?’ Emily took a sharp knife and cut away a slice down one side, then did the other to match. ‘There – he’ll never know and the cat didn’t touch the rest.’

  Mrs Hattersley hesitated, then, ‘You’d better trim the other to match or he’ll wonder why only one has been done.’

  Emily trimmed the second kipper to match. ‘They look a proper treat. Don’t be so anxious. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.’

  ‘If he dies of food poisoning I shall blame you.’

  Emily laughed. ‘Believe me, there’s a good many eat worse and never take sick. Honestly, the cat hardly touched it.’

  ‘Well, against my better judgement …’

  Emily smiled as she picked up the scraps and took them out to the yard. The pregnant cat was hiding under an upturned wheelbarrow. She laid the bits of kipper down for it and returned to the scullery. Three dead mice had been found when Tomas opened the pantry that morning. She reckoned the cat had earned her fish.