by Val Wood
A little later Martha again knocked on her door. ‘Excuse me, Miss Rosalie. There’s a gentleman enquiring ...’ Martha clasped her fingers tightly. ‘That is, he just called on ’off chance ...’
‘Enquiring? About what?’ Rosalie raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m about to go out.’
‘Yes, miss, I know. I told him that Cook’d see him but he insists on seeing you – that is, “’lady of the house” is what he said.’
‘A gentleman? Well then, why would Cook see him?’ Rosalie was flabbergasted and not a little annoyed. She felt that the staff were trying to take advantage of her.
‘It’s about ’scullery maid,’ Martha said. ‘Cook thought that ... well, so as not to bother you, she – that is, we – would put a card in ’basement window.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘To get a scullery maid, miss.’
‘You put a card in the window!’ Rosalie thought how horrified her mother would have been. ‘This is not a shop advertising its wares,’ she said rather sharply.
‘No, Miss Rosalie.’ Martha was put out to be on the receiving end of a rebuke. ‘I said as how you wouldn’t like it.’
‘And this “gentleman”? What has he to do with it?’
‘Well, we’d no sooner put ’card in ’window than he was knocking on ’door, miss. Said he knew somebody in dire need of such a position.’
Rosalie frowned. How bizarre. But Martha must be mistaken. No gentleman would make such an enquiry. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t possibly see anyone this morning. Ask him to leave his card,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘And I’ll receive him tomorrow.’
Martha dipped her knee. ‘Yes, Miss Rosalie.’
Her young mistress seemed to be taking to the running of the household with ease. ‘Inbred, it is,’ she told Cook when she went downstairs. ‘She won’t see him. I have to tell him to come back tomorrow.’
‘Well I’ll tell you this,’ Cook retorted. ‘I’ve washed ’kitchen floor for last time. I’ll not do another and that’s a fact. I’m a cook, not a skivvy!’
Sonny nodded gravely when given the news but declined to leave a card. He patted his pocket as if searching for one, but didn’t actually possess any; it wasn’t something he ever carried. His social circle didn’t deem it necessary. If they wanted to call on someone they did just that. But he was curious. The two servants had appeared to be thrown into some confusion when he’d knocked on the basement door, which was why he had asked if he might speak to the mistress of the house.
He had also overheard some of the conversation between them as he had waited in the lobby. Who was this Miss Rosalie? Was she some eccentric old spinster who allowed her staff to place a card in the basement window and then refused to speak to the applicant?
He ran up the basement steps and was about to walk on when the front door of the house opened. He paused for a moment, curiosity getting the better of him, and was interested to see a young woman, in fact not much more than a girl, come down the steps. She was a member of the family, he concluded, for she was well dressed in good cloth with a hooped skirt, though in dark colours; and, he pondered, she seemed vaguely familiar. She wore a grey hat with a black veil; the design was far too old for her, for she couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Was she bereaved, he wondered, to wear such sombre colours?
It was then that he recalled the funeral procession that had travelled behind Ida’s burial cart. It had overtaken them and he had glanced inside the leading carriage. This was the same young woman. They had locked eyes for a second before the vehicle had driven on.
‘Miss Rosalie?’ He took a chance. ‘Miss Rosalie!’ He had no hat to lift, so he put his hand to his chest and gave a slight bow. ‘I do beg your pardon for this intrusion.’
Rosalie turned in surprise and put her gloved hand to her mouth. ‘Yes?’ she whispered. ‘Who are you?’
‘Sonny Blake. We haven’t met – at least, I saw you in a funeral carriage travelling to the Northern General Cemetery.’
‘Yes? What of it?’
She was abrupt, and cautious as she should be, being approached by a stranger. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said again. ‘But I called on your servant after seeing the situation vacant card in the window.’
‘It was put there without my permission,’ she said haughtily.
Ah! A little smile hovered on his lips. So this is the eccentric spinster!
‘When I saw the card, I was hoping that I might be granted an interview with the mistress of the house, in order to recommend a young woman for the position,’ he explained. ‘She’s fallen on unfortunate times and sorely needs a live-in occupation.’
‘I’m sorry, but I cannot discuss such matters out in the street.’ Rosalie turned as if to walk away, but hesitated as he went on.
‘I apologize yet again.’ He put his hand to his chest once more. ‘Do I take it that you are the mistress of the establishment?’ Rosalie frowned and was about to retort when Sonny continued, ‘I wouldn’t normally be so crass as to presume to address you, but the young woman of whom I speak has recently lost her mother and is quite alone in the world. She presently works in a mill but doesn’t earn enough to pay her rent.’
His eyes held hers and he knew he had her attention.
‘Was she – did we pass her?’ He saw her swallow and lick her lips. ‘Was that when you saw me? On the way to the cemetery, I mean?’
‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘It was her mother’s funeral. I was accompanying Polly. It has struck her very hard. So unexpected.’
Her mouth trembled and she turned her head away. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Yes, indeed. I know how—’ She stopped. She was obviously unused to discussing private matters. ‘Ask her to call,’ she said. ‘Tell her to ask for Cook. We’ll give her a month’s trial. I cannot say longer,’ she added. ‘My future plans are unclear.’
‘Thank you so much,’ he said. ‘She’ll be very grateful.’ He dropped his voice. ‘May I ask – are you also recently bereaved?’
‘Yes.’ Rosalie took a breath. ‘I am. My mother also died. That was who – that was why we were travelling – when we passed—’
‘I am so very sorry,’ he said softly. ‘Please accept my sincere condolences.’
‘What relation to you is this young woman?’ Rosalie was suddenly alert as to propriety.
‘No relation.’ He gave her a disarming smile. ‘I’ve known the family for quite some time. Polly’s mother was an honest hard-working woman who brought up her daughter alone for many years.’ He somehow gave the impression that Ida was older than she had been and probably an impoverished widow.
‘Very well.’ Rosalie gave a dismissive nod. ‘We’ll try her out. Polly, you said?’
‘That’s right. Thank you again. Most commendable.’ He gave another slight bow. ‘May I ask to whom I am speaking?’
She lifted her chin and looked at him from clear blue eyes. ‘Rosalie Kingston.’
‘Thank you, Miss Kingston.’ He stepped back. ‘I won’t detain you any longer. I wish you good day.’
Rosalie was strangely unnerved by the incident. How would my mother have reacted, she wondered. I don’t think she would have spoken to him at all. She would have asked him to make an appointment, or perhaps Cook would have made the decision over hiring a scullery maid. I shouldn’t have taken it upon myself. I made a mistake. There’s so much to learn about running a household and Mama never got round to explaining it all to me.
She was on her way to visit the family lawyer, who had attended the funeral and requested that she drop by to see him whenever she felt up to it. She didn’t feel up to it – in the week since the funeral she had kept mostly to her room – but now it was New Year she knew that she must make some effort towards normality.
Mr Benjamin’s rooms were off High Street and she had only to wait a few minutes before she was called through to his poky office, which was filled with overflowing bookshelves and piles of paper in every corner.
Mr Be
njamin swept aside a stack of files on his desk and invited her to sit down.
‘I assume you have not yet received news of your father, Miss Kingston?’
Rosalie shook her head. ‘I have not,’ she said. ‘I’m beginning to worry.’
‘Far too early to start worrying,’ he said kindly. ‘Your father could well be abroad with his regiment, and if he is he might not receive any correspondence, although I imagine that you marked yours urgent.’
‘Yes,’ she said, slightly consoled by his benevolent attitude. ‘I did.’
‘Then I’m sure all will be well,’ he said, but then gazed at her over the top of his tortoiseshell spectacles. ‘However, we must be prepared. He is a soldier, after all, and military life is not without its dangers. I have to say that it concerns me somewhat that our Prime Minister, Palmerston, allows British soldiers to interfere in European affairs.’ Almost as an afterthought, he asked, ‘Was your mother in regular correspondence with your father?’
‘Erm – yes, I believe so.’ But not lately, she thought, so perhaps he really is abroad. ‘My father was at home early in the summer and returned to his regiment in July.’
‘Well, what I suggest is that we write to your uncle, your father’s brother, to acquaint him with the news of your mother’s death. I take it that you have not informed him?’
‘Why, no!’ Rosalie was flustered. ‘I never thought to. I don’t know where he lives. I don’t think my mother had any contact with him.’
‘Mm.’ Mr Benjamin peered down his nose at some papers he had withdrawn from a folder. ‘Well, I have here some instructions which your father left with me in case of any accident befalling him.’ He raised his eyebrows and transferred his gaze to Rosalie. ‘I do not think for a moment that anything has,’ he explained. ‘But it is my duty to be prepared.’
He thumbed through the sheaf of paper. ‘Five years ago your father and his brother Luke met me to discuss various matters which affected them both. Most of it was relating to their father’s estate, but one of the things that was arranged was that if anything should befall your father and your mother, then your uncle Luke would become your legal guardian until you came of age.’
Rosalie stared at him in astonishment. ‘But ... but I don’t know him, nor does he know me. Was my mother aware of this?’
Mr Benjamin gave a little lift of his shoulders. ‘Possibly. Or possibly not,’ he murmured. ‘Forgive me,’ he said apologetically. ‘But she didn’t need to know. You would be how old, five years ago? Eleven? Twelve?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘So could this have been arranged without my mother’s knowledge?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ he said. ‘But this action would only be put in place, as I say, if you were left without both parents. Someone had to be responsible for you, otherwise you would have been made a ward of court. But,’ he said cheerfully, ‘the question hasn’t arisen. Your father I’m quite sure is fit and well and will be home before very long, but I felt that you should be apprised of the situation.’
‘I see,’ she said faintly. ‘Well, thank you for the information. I know nothing of my uncle; I understood that my father and he didn’t correspond, and that they hadn’t been in touch for years.’
‘I believe that was true until five years ago, when they realized that there would be a mutual advantage in making up their differences. Your uncle has two children, a son and a daughter who would have become wards of your father if anything had happened to theirs. Luke Kingston is a widower,’ he added.
‘Where do they live?’
‘Oh!’ He waved a hand. ‘Somewhere up on the moors, miles from anywhere so I understand. Above Scarborough, anyway. Were you thinking of going to meet them?’
‘Not at present,’ Rosalie said, rising from the chair. ‘But as you say, it is as well to be prepared.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘Thank you so much, Sonny.’ Polly flung her arms round Sonny’s waist. ‘Oh, thank you!’
He grinned and extricated himself from her grasp. ‘You haven’t got the job yet! You have to please the cook. Tell her that Miss Kingston suggested you ask her about the position. Kow-tow to her a bit. Cooks like to think they own the kitchen and those who work in it.’
‘How do you know that?’ Polly asked curiously.
‘Oh – a friend of mine had a relation who was a cook,’ he lied, not wanting to tell her that as a child he was often in the kitchen being spoilt by Aunt Ettie’s cook. ‘She was the one who made the decisions about kitchen staff,’ he added.
‘Mebbe she was onny boasting,’ Polly declared. ‘I’d have thought that ’missus of ’house would have decided.’
‘Mistress,’ he laughed. ‘Not missus!’
‘Oh.’ Polly was deflated. ‘I don’t know how I’ll get on in a big house. I might not say or do ’right thing.’
‘It’s a scullery maid they want, Polly,’ he told her. ‘You’re going to be scrubbing floors, not arranging flowers and chatting with Miss Rosalie.’
‘Miss Rosalie? How do you know her name?’ Polly gazed at him in awe.
‘I made it my business to find out,’ he said cheerfully. ‘And’ – his manner changed – ‘I also discovered that she’s just lost her mother, at the same time as you. You recall the carriage that passed us on the way to the cemetery? That was her.’
‘Oh!’ Polly breathed. ‘So we’ve summat in common?’
His mouth turned down. ‘Not much, but that at least, and she’s about your age. But you’re not likely to see her, Polly. I wouldn’t think she spends any time in the kitchen.’
Polly nodded and sighed. ‘I’ll go now,’ she said, ‘and get it over with. Where did you say ’house was?’
‘I didn’t,’ he said. ‘But it’s in Albion Street.’
Albion Street, she thought. That’s where I saw that girl looking out of ’window. Could it be her? Is she living in that great house on her own? I wonder where her father is, or if, like me, she doesn’t know.
She curled her toes against the cold as she trudged towards Albion Street. She’d scrubbed her hands and face and her skin had a rosy glow because of the icy water and the bitter air. I’m so cold, she thought, pulling her shawl closer over her head. How do I address ’cook? Do I dip my knee? I wonder how many other servants they’ve got.
It took her ten minutes to walk from High Street to Albion Street, but she didn’t mind. It won’t matter how long it takes me, cos if I get ’job then I’ll live in and won’t have to go back to High Street every night. I hope it’s warm; I hope they have big fires. I shan’t even mind cleaning them out as long as I can warm myself by them. She and her mother had a fireplace in their room, but only lit a fire when they could find kindling or beg some wood from the timber yards, for they had no money to buy coal.
After her mother died, Mrs Walters had advised Polly not to light a fire until after the funeral. She had stared uncomprehendingly for a second and then she wept. She hadn’t lit a fire since.
She found the house number on the wrought iron gate which led to the basement area, and then looked up at the house. There were half a dozen steps leading up to the front door, which was painted black. She was fairly sure it was the house where she had seen the girl in the window. She’d waved, she recalled. I wonder if she was feeling as lonely as I was.
Polly knocked on the basement door. Sonny had told her not to go to the front door but the one down the area steps. Servants’ quarters, he had said. The front door was only for family or friends.
A woman came to the door. She was wearing a grey dress with a white apron over it and a white cap on her head. Oh, Polly breathed. I hope I’ll be able to wear a uniform like that.
‘Yes?’ The woman looked Polly up and down. ‘What do you want?’
Polly licked her lips and bobbed her knee. ‘Scuse me,’ she said. ‘I was told to ask for ’cook. Miss Kingston said I was to come.’
‘She never did!’ Martha was disbelieving. ‘Did she tell you herself?’
Polly shook her head. ‘No. She told a friend and said to be sure to ask for ’cook,’ she repeated.
Martha grunted. ‘You’d better come in then. But stop there in ’lobby. Don’t come in ’kitchen wi’ them dirty boots.’
Polly stepped inside. ‘They’re wet,’ she explained. ‘Snow’s all slushy.’
‘I can see that for myself,’ Martha muttered. ‘But Cook’s washed ’floor ’n’ she won’t do it again.’
Cook called her in but told her to take her boots off. Polly stood in front of her with cold bare red toes.
‘Don’t you possess any stockings?’ The cook frowned.
‘No, mum,’ she said. ‘We could never run to stockings.’
‘So tell me about yourself.’ Cook sat down in a wooden rocking chair and folded her arms. ‘Where’ve you worked afore?’
‘I’m Polly Parker, I’m seventeen in a few days and I’m a mill worker,’ she said. ‘I’ve allus worked but I don’t earn much and my ma’s just died and I can’t afford to pay for a room wi’ my wages.’
‘What did your ma die of? Was it infectious?’
‘No. She died of loss o’ blood,’ Polly said, unwilling to say her mother had died of a miscarriage.
‘Loss o’ blood?’ Martha interrupted. ‘How was that? Did she have an accident?’
Cook glared at Martha. ‘Excuse me! I’m asking ’questions.’
‘Sorry!’ Martha shrugged.
The cook raised her eyebrows and Polly knew she would still have to answer the question even though Cook hadn’t asked it.
‘She – erm, she lost ’bairn she was carrying. Just afore Christmas.’ Tears came unexpectedly and trickled down her cheek.
Cook lifted her head and her mouth turned down and Polly dreaded the next question, which she was sure would be where her father was. But she was mistaken. Cook simply said, ‘I lost my ma when I was about your age. She’d been ill for some time, though, so it wasn’t unexpected.’