Chaff upon the Wind

by Margaret Dickinson

  She was still standing beside the large table in the centre of the kitchen. Its wooden surface was worn into gentle, undulating hollows by the constant scrubbing it received to bring it almost to whiteness.

  ‘We did.’ Kitty’s mother was nodding agreement to Mrs Grundy’s reminiscence. ‘And we had some good times, as well as . . .’ Her voice faded away and the cook cut in as if to cover an awkwardness.

  ‘Let’s see, ’ow long is it since you left?’

  Kitty saw her mother’s glance flicker towards her and then fall away. ‘About seventeen years,’ she murmured.

  ‘And you’ve got a lovely family, ain’t you? You bin all right with John Clegg, then?’

  ‘He’s a good man. A good husband and father. But I – I fear he’s never been happy with his job on the railway.’

  ‘Well, he ought to be, Betsy. Stationmaster now, ain’t he? And you’ve always had a railway house. A nice house, too, much nicer than a farm labourer’s cottage.’ She sniffed. ‘Some men are never satisfied, if you ask me.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Betsy twisted her fingers together. ‘He always loved his job with the horses, you know, but after . . .’ Again a swift glance at Kitty. ‘After he left the Manor, the only jobs going round here at that time were on the railway. It was the wrong time of year for a farm worker’s job, you see.’

  ‘I remember,’ Mrs Grundy said softly. Then, as if trying to reassure her old friend, she added brightly, ‘But that’s men for you. Always wanting what they haven’t got. He’d never’ve had the position he’s got in the town now if he’d stayed with horses, now would he?’

  Betsy shrugged but made no reply.

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t.’ The cook answered her own question. ‘Besides,’ she added as a fresh thought struck her, ‘if he ’ad stayed here, he wouldn’t be with horses now anyway.’

  For a moment Kitty’s mother looked puzzled as Mrs Grundy leaned forward. ‘He’d have been driving that there motey car.’ She gave a cackle of laughter. ‘But poor old Bemmy’s got the job instead. And he hates it, I can tell you.’ She leaned back in her chair and nodded wisely. ‘Your John Clegg’s done all right for himself if only he’d think so. So don’t you go on blaming yarsen for the rest of your life, Betsy, that he lost his job wi’ horses because of you.’

  Kitty’s mother smiled weakly, but looked unconvinced, even by the stout-hearted Mrs Grundy.

  At this point Kitty had butted in. ‘Did you work here, then, Mam? At the Manor? You never said.’

  The two women had looked up at her then, almost as if they had forgotten she was there, but it was the cook, not her mother, who said sternly, ‘Well, one thing you’ll have to learn here, m’girl, is to speak when you’re spoken to and not ’afore.’

  Kitty had clamped her mouth shut, feeling a stab of dismay. She had hoped the cook would be a kindly soul and yet already she was telling her off. Then Kitty had seen Mrs Grundy wink at her mother and at once the young girl had sensed that the reprimand had been merely to let a cheeky kitchen maid know her place from the outset. It did not herald a life of misery for her under a bad-tempered superior.

  Betsy Clegg had risen to her feet. ‘I’d best be getting back. The bairns’ll be shouting for their tea.’

  ‘’Ow many you got then, Betsy?’

  Her mother had nodded towards Kitty. ‘She’s me eldest, then there’s two lads and three more girls. The youngest, Robert, is only eight months old.’

  Mrs Grundy shook her head slowly. ‘Well, I can see now why you want young Kitty ’ere placed.’ Their attention had turned to Kitty, still standing by the table.

  Betsy had sighed. ‘Well, I hope you can do summat with her, ’cos she’s a wild one, I don’t mind admitting. But she’s got her good points, I’ll say that for her, even though she’s me own. She’s a worker. Set her owt to do, an’ she’ll do it. Anything from scrubbing to sewing. Neatest little stiches you ever did see, she can do.’

  ‘Well, she’ll have no energy left for her wild ways once she gets working here, and there’ll be more of the scrubbing than the fancy stitching.’ Mrs Grundy’s mouth had been a firm, resolute line, but still the young girl had seen the twinkle in the cook’s eyes.

  That moment had set the tone of their relationship. Mrs Grundy was strict and worked Kitty hard, but she was always fair and had a rough, but kindly concern for the little kitchen maid in her charge.

  On that first day and for several weeks afterwards, Kitty had seen little more of the Manor beyond the kitchen, the backyard and its wash-house, and the way up the back stairs to her attic bedroom under the thatch.

  But now, three years later, thought Kitty Clegg with growing excitement, now there was a chance for her to better herself. Ever since that first day, she’d been little more than a skivvy, with chapped and calloused hands and wearing rough, scullery maid’s clothes. But not any more, she told herself. Come hell or high water, she was going to be Miss Miriam’s new lady’s maid. You just see if I’m not, she said to Mrs Grundy.

  But the challenge was only in her mind and not a word passed her lips.

  Four

  Nervously Kitty smoothed the palms of her hands down her clean apron, patted the cap enveloping her unruly black hair, licked her lips and knocked boldly on the door of Mrs Franklin’s sitting room on the first floor.

  A gentle, cultured voice called ‘Come in’ and Kitty pushed open the door. Even though, on this warm August day, bright sunlight streamed in through the long windows to her right, Mrs Franklin was seated to one side of the fireplace where a fire burned in the grate. Her head was bent over a frame of petit point, her nimble fingers threading the needle through the canvas, one hand above the work, one beneath it. Kitty closed the door quietly behind her and tiptoed into the room to stand a short distance from Mrs Franklin. Fascinated by the brightly coloured wool speeding in and out of the canvas, the neat stitches forming the picture before her eyes, Kitty spoke without thinking. ‘Oh how clever you are, madam.’ The words, perhaps somewhat presumptuous from a lowly kitchen maid, were nonetheless genuine.

  Mrs Franklin raised her head and Kitty’s gaze met hers. The mistress of the Manor House was nearing her fortieth birthday, but her luxuriant blonde hair showed only a trace of silver here and there in its abundance. It was beautifully dressed, high on her head with neat curls framing her forehead. Her face was serene, her complexion smooth with only the merest hint of tiny lines around her hazel eyes. Her gentle mouth curved into a welcoming smile. Every time Kitty saw her mistress she marvelled again at her beauty and wondered afresh how she had come to marry a man like the master.

  ‘Why, thank you, Kitty.’ Mrs Franklin waited a moment but since the girl did not speak, she prompted softly, ‘What can I do for you, my dear? Nothing wrong in the kitchen, I hope?’

  ‘Oh no, madam,’ Kitty said swiftly. ‘I’m very happy working here . . .’ She bit her lip, holding her breath as a sudden twinge of uncertainty gripped her.

  But Mrs Franklin was smiling. ‘Do I hear a “but” in there somewhere, Kitty?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Kitty said again. ‘Well, not really.’ She pulled in a deep breath and the words came out in a rush. ‘I’ve come to ask you – to see you – about Lucy.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Mrs Franklin sighed deeply and there was a sadness in her fine eyes. ‘Poor Lucy,’ she murmured. ‘She’s given me her resignation. I don’t want to take it, but she – she seems adamant.’ She sighed again and murmured, more to herself than to the girl, ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do. Really, I don’t.’

  Eagerly, Kitty took a step forward, bending towards her employer in her excitement. ‘Please, would you consider me for the position of your lady’s maid? For you and Miss Miriam, I mean. I can sew . . .’ With her chapped, kitchen maid’s hand, she gestured towards Mrs Franklin’s embroidery. ‘Not as good as you, madam, of course, but me mam taught me and she – she . . .’ She just stopped herself from blurting out who her mother had been and the position she had once held i
n this very house. That had been before the present Mrs Franklin had lived here, before she had become mistress of the Manor and perhaps mention of it at this time would do young Kitty no favours. But to Kitty’s surprise the kindly eyes were regarding her steadily. ‘Oh yes. I know about your mother.’ The words were spoken softly and there was a fleeting, rather strange look in the lady’s eyes, yet it was gone in an instant, so swiftly that Kitty thought she must have imagined it.

  Mrs Franklin concentrated once more on her embroidery and for a moment there was silence in the room, save for the heavy ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the gentle rasping sound of the wool being pulled through the tiny holes in the canvas.

  Mrs Franklin looked up at Kitty. ‘Do you really think you could cope? I mean . . .’ Her voice trailed away and mistress and maid stared at each other, both knowing the meaning behind the unspoken words.

  Can you cope with Miss Miriam’s tantrums, her quicksilver moods and her treatment of every one of the stream of maids who have come and gone during the last three years? This was the question in Mrs Franklin’s eyes. Slowly Kitty nodded. ‘I’d really like to try, madam.’

  A small smile quirked at the older woman’s mouth. ‘Well,’ she murmured softly as if, once more, thinking aloud. ‘At least you know what to expect.’ She paused, appearing to consider. ‘What about Mrs Grundy? Does she know you’ve come to see me?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Kitty said truthfully. ‘But I think . . .’ Now the smile that had twitched at the girl’s lips spread itself across her mouth. ‘I think she knows I’m “up to summat”.’

  Mrs Franklin laughed. ‘Well, Kitty, I will think about it. But I must speak to Mrs Grundy, you understand, because it would leave her without a kitchen maid.’

  Kitty’s heart sank. She was not a conceited girl, but she knew that Mrs Grundy would not want to let her go. The cook had trained young Kitty to her own ways and hated change. But all she could say now was, ‘Yes, madam,’ and ‘Thank you, madam,’ give a small curtsy and leave the room, her heart not quite as hopeful as when she had entered it.

  ‘Would you walk out with me if I were a lady’s maid and not a scruffy kitchen maid then?’

  She sat on top of the five-barred gate looking down at Jack Thorndyke, who squinted up at her against the setting sun, a straw hanging out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Mebbe. Mebbe not.’ Casually, he removed the chewed end and prodded it towards her. ‘Who said I wouldn’t walk out with a kitchen maid, then?’

  She shrugged. ‘No one. But I ’eard as how you walked out with Evie Miller on Sir Peter Rowell’s estate. An’ she’s Lady Rowell’s personal maid.’

  ‘So? What of it?’ He moved away from her, stepping into the cornfield, the wheat rustling around his long legs.

  ‘Are you still keeping company with her then?’

  Jack bent down and, with his knife, cut several ears of the corn. Straightening up, he turned and came back towards her. Laughing his deep, rumbling laugh, he said, ‘Mebbe.’ And then, irritatingly, added, ‘Mebbe not.’

  ‘Oh you,’ Kitty said and jumped down from the gate, her skirts flying. ‘You’re a right Jack-the-Lad, aren’t ya?’ she accused. ‘Good name your mam give you. After all the girls. I don’t know why I bother with you, Jack Thorndyke.’

  There was a brief frown on his face, his thick dark eyebrows drawn together as if a cloud had suddenly passed across the sun, but the next moment he reached out and caught the back of her neck with his strong hand. He pulled her towards him and although she resisted at first, she was no match for the strength of this man, not even against the one arm with which he held her. He pulled her to him and bent his head, laughing now into her eyes, his breath on her face, his lips only inches from her mouth. ‘You bother, young Kitty Clegg, ’cos you’ve waited a whole year to see me again. You’ve waited to see what it would be like to lie with a man like me.’

  Kitty gasped and her eyes widened at his boldness, at his presumption. But she could not speak. There was nothing she could say, because what Jack Thorndyke said was true. Every word of it. And he knew it. The realization that he could read her thoughts and her girlish desires so plainly made the colour creep up her neck and suffuse her face.

  Chuckling softly, as if enjoying her embarrassment, he released her and stepped away from her. Leaning his back against the gate and holding the long stems of wheat just below the ears, he counted, ‘ . . . Seven, eight, nine,’ and then began to plait them together.

  Kitty swallowed and, trying to marshal her whirling thoughts, made herself concentrate on what he was doing. She marvelled that such broad hands, so used to working the huge engine, could nevertheless plait the fine stems so nimbly.

  ‘What are you making?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ he murmured, his eyes never lifting now from his intricate work.

  Fascinated, she watched as a shape began to appear. ‘You’re making a corn dolly.’

  ‘Where I come from, we call it a corn maiden, but yes, that’s right.’

  Kitty clasped her hands in delight. ‘I’ve seen ’em, of course, but I’ve never seen one being made.’ She paused, watching, then eager to know, demanded, ‘Is that the head with the ears of corn for the hair?’

  The plaiting was being fashioned into a tiny spherical shape that curved in and then sharply out again.

  ‘Uh-huh. And now the shoulders, see? And in for the waist,’ he murmured. ‘Tiny waist, she’s got, Kitty. Just like yours.’

  Then his clever fingers widened the diameter of the rounds to form a bell-shaped skirt.

  ‘But she’s got no arms.’

  ‘Those are worked separately. Now, take my knife and you go and cut two lots of five straws. Cut the ears off. I don’t need them this time.’

  She did as he told her, handing them to him. He set the finished body on top of the gate post while he cut the stems she had brought to the length he wanted. Two tiny arms, as if dressed in billowing sleeves, were fastened to the main body, the hands formed by the cut-off ends of the stems and tied together in the front.

  ‘Now, young Kitty. What’s missing?’

  She blinked at him. ‘I dunno. What is missing?’

  ‘If she’s a corn maiden she should be carrying a sheaf of corn. But as she’s so tiny, we’ll use just the ears. About six we need.’ He held out the knife towards her again. ‘You cut them for me, Kitty.’

  She took his knife and stepped into the corn once more.

  ‘Leave about a couple of inches of stalk below the ears,’ he called and she nodded, bending to cut half a dozen ears as he instructed.

  She turned and held them out towards him. ‘All right?’

  ‘Perfect,’ he smiled. ‘I can see you’re wasted in the kitchen. I should have you out here with me in the fields.’

  Kitty said nothing, but waded her way back through the corn to stand beside him. With the stalks slotted through the tied hands, it now looked as if the maiden were carrying a sheaf of corn in her arms.

  ‘There.’ He held it out to her, balancing it on the palm of his hand. ‘That’s for you.’

  As Kitty reached out with fingers that trembled a little to take the maiden, he stepped closer and touched her chin with the tips of his fingers. ‘Will you be my Harvest Nell this year, Kitty Clegg?’ he asked her softly.

  ‘Oh Jack.’ It was a great compliment he was paying her. Not only was he giving her a countryman’s favour in the shape of this corn maiden, but he was asking her to be the Harvest Queen and ride on the last load from the field. It was every bit as good as being Queen of the May or Carnival Queen.

  ‘We’ll make a bigger one of these,’ he nodded towards the doll she held gently in the palm of her hand, ‘from a whole sheaf of the last corn we cut. It’ll ride with you on the final load to the barn.’

  Kitty’s eyes shone. ‘Oh thank you, Jack, thank you. I’d love to be your Harvest Nell.’

  Five

  ‘Mrs Grundy tells me that your mother was personal maid to my
husband’s mother.’

  Kitty was standing once more on the turkey red and blue carpet in Mrs Franklin’s sitting room facing her employer. The fire crackled in the grate, the clock ticked in the corner and all around were Mrs Franklin’s personal pieces of furniture. This room, more than any other in the whole house, seemed to reflect the mistress’s personality. It was a tranquil room and tastefully furnished. A small, leather-topped writing desk stood against one wall and beside it was a beautiful chiffonier, black with hand-painted pictures on its doors and drawer fronts. Delicate porcelain figurines stood on top. In the far corner stood a piano which, Kitty knew, Mrs Franklin played sometimes, but only for her own amusement and never in front of anyone else. Pictures lined the walls. A likeness of the old Queen Victoria hung among oil paintings of the Manor House and there was a companion landscape of Nunsthorpe Hall.

  But at this precise moment Kitty was seeing none of these things for her full attention was on her mistress.

  ‘Yes, madam,’ she said huskily.

  ‘I knew, of course,’ Mrs Franklin went on, ‘that your mother had worked for the family before I came – my husband made that perfectly clear when he wanted you engaged as kitchen maid here – but I hadn’t realized that she . . .’ There was the slightest of pauses. ‘ . . . had been employed in that capacity.’

  Kitty was silent though her quick mind was tumbling over itself with surprise, scarcely hearing now what Mrs Franklin was saying. The master? Why had he concerned himself with the engaging of a lowly kitchen maid? That sort of thing was always handled by the mistress. So why . . .? She could tell nothing from Mrs Franklin’s tone of voice or from her expression. Today she was sitting on the wide window seat, her back to the light, her face in shadow and she had the advantage of the young girl standing in the full light from the window.

  To Kitty’s surprise, Mrs Franklin suddenly patted the cushion beside her. ‘Come and sit down, Kitty, and we’ll have a little chat.’

  ‘Madam?’