by Val Wood
‘Yes, I know.’ Rosalie smiled. ‘She had to go out. It’s quite all right, Cook. Polly said she’d just made tea so I’ve come down for a cup.’
‘Oh, but Polly could have brought it up.’ Cook was completely flustered.
Rosalie sat down at the scrubbed table. ‘I need to talk to you, Cook. Please sit down.’
She did, slowly and reluctantly. It’s odd, Rosalie thought. Cook is much older than me and yet she treats me with such deference. It’s not just politeness – it’s almost servility, and I don’t think I like that.
‘I received a letter from my father this morning,’ Rosalie told her and watched as Polly poured three cups of strong brown tea. ‘I’ve been waiting for a reply since I wrote to tell him of my mother’s death.’
To her horror she felt her eyes prickle with tears. I mustn’t cry, she thought. I mustn’t cry in front of them. She swallowed hard and took a breath and saw both Cook and Polly watching her.
Polly sat down at the table beside her and placed a cup and saucer in front of her. ‘Would you like a spoon of sugar in there, miss?’ she asked, pushing a glass sugar bowl towards her.
‘I don’t know.’ Rosalie looked down at the steaming tea.
‘Miss Rosalie doesn’t usually have this kind of tea,’ Cook said. ‘She might not like it.’
‘Is there another kind of tea?’ Polly asked.
Rosalie took a sip. ‘I will have some sugar,’ she said. ‘It’s stronger than I usually have, but very nice, very satisfying. Yes,’ she said to Polly. ‘There are different kinds of tea: Indian, China, tea made from herbs.’ She took another sip. ‘But I like this. Thank you, Polly, for asking me.’
Cook, open-mouthed, glared at Polly, and she knew she would be in hot water when Miss Rosalie had gone back upstairs. Then the basement door crashed open and Martha burst in.
‘Guess what,’ she began, and drew in a breath when she saw Rosalie.
‘Just in time, Martha,’ Rosalie said. ‘I was about to tell Cook about my father’s letter.’
Martha glanced at Cook and then at Polly, both apparently entertaining the young mistress from upstairs. There was cake on the table and they were all drinking tea.
She sat down next to Cook and Polly got up again to pour her a cup. ‘I had to go out,’ she babbled. ‘I didn’t mean to tek so long.’
Rosalie disregarded her comment. ‘My father isn’t coming home as I expected he would,’ she said. ‘And although he hasn’t made any final arrangements, I feel that it is only fair to tell you that he is going to close up the house.’
She waited a moment or two for this to sink in and then said, ‘I am as upset about this decision as I’m sure you will be, especially as I’ll have to leave and live elsewhere.’
Cook found her voice. ‘We half expected it, Miss Rosalie. I was onny saying to Martha that I thought this might happen. You can’t live alone, miss,’ she added softly. ‘It isn’t right.’
‘Will you be able to find other work?’ Rosalie asked. ‘I will ask my father to give you references, of course.’
‘I’ve been offered an interview for second housemaid, Miss Rosalie,’ Martha broke in. ‘Whilst I was out today I met somebody I knew and she said that they were looking for extra help. I’ve to see ’housekeeper tomorrow if I can get ’time off
Cook glanced at Polly and raised her eyebrows with an I told you so expression.
‘That will be all right, Martha,’ Rosalie said. ‘But we shall expect you to work your notice so you must make that clear if you are offered the position. And what about you, Cook? Will you be able to find other work?’
Cook nodded. ‘I hope so, though plain cooks like me generally stay in one place if their employers are satisfied wi’ them.’
‘Well, I will tell my father that you must stay on until you find a new position, at least until I too have to leave.’ Rosalie glanced at Polly, who was staring down into her cup. ‘What will you do, Polly?’
Polly shook her head. ‘Don’t know, miss,’ she said quietly. ‘But I’ll stay on and help until ’house is shut up.’ She pressed her lips together and took a breath. ‘And then I’ll move on.’
Martha was offered the new position and worked two weeks’ notice, but before she left she arranged for the regular washerwoman to wash the bedlinen, even though it took a lot of drying in the cold damp weather. Then she and Polly folded the sheets neatly and put them in the cupboards in the ironing room and placed dried lavender between them. They sprinkled dry tea leaves on the carpets before brushing them vigorously, then polished the dining room furniture and covered it with fustian sheets; Rosalie had said that she would no longer use the room but would take breakfast in her own room and other meals on a small table in the morning room.
‘Where will she go, do you think?’ Polly asked Martha as they cleaned the windows. ‘Who will she stay with?’
‘Don’t know.’ Martha shrugged. ‘Some relation. I don’t suppose she’ll have a choice; she’ll have to go to whoever will have her.’
‘I wouldn’t like that,’ Polly said. ‘I’d like to be asked so I could say yes or no.’
Martha grunted. ‘Well, those who are better off than us have to do what’s expected of ’em, so in that sense they’re worse off than us. I mean, Miss Rosalie will have a husband chosen for her; I bet her father’s looking about for somebody right now and she’ll not have any say in ‘matter.’
Polly gazed at her. ‘But that’s not fair! Suppose it’s somebody she doesn’t like?’
‘Oh, I don’t suppose she’d be forced, but if there’s somebody wi’ money who’s fairly presentable, well, she’d be hard pressed to find a reason why she shouldn’t marry him.’ Martha gave a sigh. ‘I wouldn’t mind if somebody’d find me a rich husband. I’d marry him like a shot and then I’d not have to work any more.’
Cook had put her name down at an employment agency. So far there had been no enquiries, but as there had been no letter yet from Miss Rosalie’s father with instructions regarding the house she was not overly worried. She made sure that Polly scrubbed all the kitchen shelves, and then they listed everything in the store cupboard and cooked everything that was perishable. Preserves, pickles and bottled fruit were stacked in the limewashed cold larder, and she bought only enough from the fishmonger, butcher and baker to last a week at a time.
‘We could put ’waste in a pig pail, couldn’t we?’ Polly suggested one day when Miss Rosalie sent back half of the food that had been cooked for her. ‘There’s too much for us to eat. We never had much left over but my ma allus used to send our scraps and peelings to ’pig man and earn a copper or two.’
‘Nah!’ Cook scoffed. ‘In some houses them pittances are ‘servants’ perks, but when I first came here Mrs Kingston told me that I couldn’t put food out for pigwash cos it encouraged vermin.’
‘True, it does,’ Polly agreed. ‘I’ve seen many a rat jumping out of a pig pail.’
An interview for Cook came on the same day that Rosalie received another letter from her father and one from her uncle Luke.
‘You must take the job if it’s offered, Cook,’ she told her after scanning both letters, ‘and there will be no need to work your notice if they want you immediately. I shall be able to manage for the short time before I leave.’
‘I’ll stay and help you, Miss Rosalie,’ Polly said. ‘I’m in no hurry to go off anywhere.’
In truth Polly was dreading leaving the house. She had become accustomed to having regular meals every day, and even in the short time she had worked there she had put on some weight. She liked having her mattress by the warm range and she felt secure in the knowledge that there was no landlord to turn her out. Now she wondered what she would do next, but thought that if Miss Rosalie would give her a reference she would apply elsewhere for a similar job.
Cook had gone out for her interview in her black coat and hat and Polly thought how different she looked out of her white apron and cap, undistinguished and less authoritative.
She was nervous, she said, for she hadn’t been interviewed in over fifteen years. ‘Miss Rosalie was just a toddler when I first came here. I used to make milk pobs for her cos she wasn’t a good feeder.’
‘It’s a good recommendation if you’ve been in one job for such a long time,’ Polly said. ‘Somebody’ll be glad to have you.’
When Cook came back an hour later she was beaming and her hat was askew. ‘I can start tomorrow if Miss Rosalie agrees. ’Old cook at a house on Beverley Road has died and they’re desperate for somebody to start straight away.’
‘So there you are then,’ Polly said. ‘Isn’t that what I said? I don’t suppose they want a scullery maid as well, do they?’
‘Shouldn’t think so,’ Cook said blithely. ‘They’ve got a large staff, but I’ll think on you, Polly if I should hear of owt,’ she added. ‘You’re a good lass. You’ll do all right.’
So I might, Polly thought, if I’m given ’opportunity. She heaved a breath. Mebbe I’ll seek out Sonny Blake and see if he’s got any other bright ideas.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rosalie sat down in a chair by the window and reread the letter from her uncle. Her father’s letter had been brief, merely asking about her health and wellbeing and telling her that she should expect a letter from his brother fairly soon.
And here it was. She fingered the two pages. The writing was a scrawl as if the writer was in a hurry to rush off to do other things.
Dear Niece,
I am in receipt of your father’s letter and am sorry to hear of the death of his wife, your mother. I too have suffered the affliction of losing a wife and therefore send my sincere condolences.
My brother has requested that I abide by our agreement to assume the guardianship of each other’s children should anything untoward happen to either of us, and in consideration of his request I hereby offer you a home until such time as you are of an age when you may wish to make some other arrangement.
It will be convenient for me to expect you here at the end of February. I cannot guarantee that travelling conditions will be ideal, and you must be prepared for harsh weather until the end of March. We live very quiet lives here and entertainment is non-existent. I will await news of the date of your arrival.
Yours sincerely,
Luke Kingston.
Goodness, Rosalie thought. How very welcoming! He’s told me nothing of himself, or indeed of his children. Are they male or female? Will I have the company of a female cousin or will I be surrounded by males? Does he have a housekeeper? What kind of house does he live in, and where? All I have is an address – Nab Farm, near Kirk Moor. She threw the letter on the floor. He has told me nothing!
Polly knocked on the door and entered with a tray of tea and toast, which she placed on a table. ‘Cook said you might like this, Miss Rosalie, and she said to tell you that she’s been offered ’position and they’d like her to start straight away if you’ve no objection. Seemingly they knew about your ma – mother – and don’t want to inconvenience you.’
Rosalie shook her head. ‘Tell Cook it’s quite all right. I’m sure I can manage. I’ll speak to her later. Perhaps she’ll prepare some ham or beef,’ she murmured, almost to herself, ‘to tide me over until I leave for my uncle’s house.’
She frowned as she thought of the logistics of travelling so far in winter conditions. I must write to Mr Fellowes and ask him if he knows of a reliable driver who can convey me to North Yorkshire. To Polly she said, ‘I’ll be leaving at the end of February. There’s quite a lot to be done before my departure; perhaps you could help me? There are clothes to be pressed and packed in the trunk, and I’d like to take some of my personal belongings with me. I don’t know if I’ll be coming back, you see.’
A tear trickled down her cheek. I weep so often, she thought, and yet I feel that I haven’t yet cried enough.
Polly gazed at her. ‘It must be difficult for you to leave ’home you’ve lived in all your life,’ she said softly. ‘Especially going on your own. I’ll help you all I can.’
Rosalie took out a handkerchief and wiped her cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘It’s no worse for me than it is for you, and at least I’m going to family, even though I don’t know them.’
‘I didn’t have anything to leave behind, miss,’ Polly said. ‘Not a thing that I was bothered about, anyway. After my ma had gone there was nothing and nobody that mattered.’
Rosalie looked at her and blinked her wet lashes. ‘You’re very brave,’ she said. ‘I wonder where you get your strength from.’
‘Don’t know,’ Polly murmured. ‘But when you’ve never had much then you’ve no expectations of owt good ever happening.’
‘But that’s awful!’ Rosalie exclaimed. ‘You must surely have something in life to look forward to?’
Polly shrugged. ‘Can’t think of anything, Miss Rosalie. It’s a question of tekking each day as it comes.’ She gave a grin. ‘Getting this job was ’best thing that ever happened to me.’ She shrugged again. ‘But I should’ve known that it wouldn’t last.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Rosalie said. ‘So sorry to disappoint you.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ Polly answered. ‘It’s not your fault.’
After Polly had left the room, Rosalie slowly sipped her tea and nibbled on the toast. I have so much more than she has and therefore more to lose. And yet she is more cheerful and accepting of her lot than I am. Is she not desperately unhappy without future plans? How could I live without expectations? And yet, she pondered, my life so far has been nothing out of the ordinary and perhaps I can only look forward to more of the same, though as a wife and mother rather than a daughter.
For a while she meditated on her probable future, and then she took out her writing materials and began a letter to Mr and Mrs Fellowes to enquire about transport to North Yorkshire. Pensively she bit on the end of her pen. I won’t be happy about travelling alone, she considered, and they too will be concerned for my safety. Yet I can’t expect them to travel with me. It would be stretching the bounds of kindness too far, I fear.
She gazed out of the window to the street below and remembered knocking on the glass to attract the attention of the girl below. It was Polly, she had since realized, who was alone, as she was. She turned from her desk and rang the bell.
Polly returned and went to pick up the tea tray. ‘Beg pardon, Miss Rosalie,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think you’d be finished yet.’
‘Leave it for a moment,’ she said. ‘I want to talk to you,’ and she stood up so that they were facing each other, head to head. ‘Polly!’ she said. ‘Will you come with me?’
Polly stared at her. Miss Rosalie seemed animated and excited, and yet strangely nervous. ‘Come with you, Miss Rosalie? Where to?’
Rosalie licked her lips. ‘To my uncle’s house. He lives in North Yorkshire. It’s quite a long way from here – so maybe,’ she hesitated, ‘maybe you wouldn’t want to come.’ She heaved a breath. ‘But if you felt that you could—’
‘Oh! Miss!’ Polly exhaled. ‘Do you mean it? Do you mean ... to stay wi’ you – or just to travel with you?’
‘Oh, but to stay, of course. My uncle will raise no objections, I’m sure. He wouldn’t expect me to go alone.’
‘Wouldn’t he?’ Polly thought that better-off folk had a funny way of going on when they could take other people along without asking and with no thought of the expense of feeding them. But who was she to object? ‘Well then, yes please!’ She grinned. ‘That’d be summat I could really look forward to.’
Rosalie put her hand across her face as emotion threatened to envelop her. ‘Good,’ she managed to stammer, and then burst into tears.
Polly put her hand on Rosalie’s arm and led her back to her chair, murmuring, ‘You’ve not had a proper cry yet, have you? Come on. Let it all out. Better out than in, my ma used to say.’
She too felt a prickle of tears as Rosalie sobbed, but hers were tears of happiness and expectation. Hope you’re w
atching me, Ma, she thought. I think things might be coming right after all.
After Cook had left, Polly was in charge of the kitchen, a chore she revelled in. ‘I’m no great shakes at cooking, Miss Rosalie,’ she told her, ‘but I can cook shin o’ beef and mek a stew. I watched Cook do that and it’s easy enough. And I know a good baker where we can get fresh bread every day, and cakes too if you’ve a fancy for ’em.’
Rosalie smiled. It was such a relief not to have to plan meals every day and tell Cook what she should do. Now they could eat whatever they wanted whenever they felt like it. She looked round the kitchen, at the well-scrubbed table, the cooking range Polly cleaned out every morning, the clock ticking steadily on the wall.
‘Shall we live in here, Polly?’ she said.
Polly put her head on one side. What did Miss Rosalie mean? Polly already lived in the kitchen, and slept here too, although she could have had either Martha’s or Cook’s vacated room if she’d wanted to.
‘How do you mean, miss?’
‘Well, it’s so cosy and warm and there’s really no point in lighting a fire upstairs just for me. I don’t mean I should sleep here,’ she added hastily. ‘I know that you sleep down here, and besides, my own bed is very comfortable, but I thought that we could bring down two easy chairs and one or two more lamps for reading; the light isn’t very good for that,’ she said, glancing round. ‘It would save a lot of work, wouldn’t it?’
‘It’s true, it would.’ Polly nodded. It would mean one fire fewer to clean and light every day, and save hauling a bucket of coal upstairs. Not that she minded doing that. She liked to see a fire blazing merrily in the cleanly swept hearth and she liked to look round the sitting room with its patterned wallpaper and large gilt mirror over the fireplace and big windows overlooking the street.
‘Would I be in the way?’ Rosalie asked anxiously. ‘Because if you’d rather not ...’
‘Oh, no,’ Polly assured her. ‘But it’s a bit unusual isn’t it? I mean, suppose somebody calls to see you? Like ’parson or somebody.’