Throughout Thursday we worked in a jittery, expectant way, ready at any time to throw off our aprons, smooth our extra crisp dresses, hide any loose ends of hair under our lace caps, and line up to greet our auspicious guests. Any movement on the gravel drive would send one of us scampering to a window, ready to sound the alarm. As the afternoon advanced, we took it in turns to stand guard near the hall window.
Just as we were sitting down to a cup of tea and Molly was drinking hers at the window, she cried, “Their coach is coming!” We rushed to take our well drilled places at the door. (I found Molly’s cup of cold tea two days later behind the hall curtain.)
Mr. Thorpe (from now on I vowed to address him thus) sprang from the coach in his normal boyish manner, followed by a more cautious exit by Mr. Harrington, who went on to flex his back to relieve the aches from the country roads. Mr. Thorpe and the coachman together assisted Mrs. Harrington out of the coach; she looked exasperated by their attendance but could not have descended without their help. Then Miss Sophia appeared, and with the lightest touch of Mr. Thorpe’s hand, she elegantly stepped down and smoothed out her beautiful dress whilst saying something that made her fiancé laugh.
After barely a glance in our direction, the party swept into the house and we became busy attending to their wishes and needs. A second coach soon appeared with the luggage and, to our surprise, a lady’s maid to attend the female guests. Whilst preparing afternoon tea, we had a quick discussion in the kitchen about where to accommodate the maid. Agnes volunteered to sleep at home, so her attic room was available, but it soon transpired that the maid intended to sleep in Miss Sophia’s dressing room.
I hoped my face did not give away my blankness because, to my knowledge, none of the bedrooms could boast of a dressing room. Then, within seconds, I remembered that the room allocated to Miss Sophia did have a small room adjacent to it, which we called “the box room.” After a bit of hasty furniture removing, we rearranged the room into an apology of a dressing room. We wanted to get a brass bed frame into the room, but the maid said it would be “out of keeping with the function of the room.” Instead, she was willing to sleep on the bedroom’s chaise lounge, so we struggled and succeeded in getting it through the door way, all the while thinking that she was sacrificing comfort for elegance.
If we had ever entertained the idea that having a lady’s maid to attend to the Harrington ladies would lessen our workload, we were quickly proved wrong. Bertha (for that was her name) made free use of the call bells with the excuse that she could not possibly leave her ladies to run and fetch what was deemed necessary. So poor Molly and Clara were forever running up and down the stairs to fetch (and I give but a few examples) lavender water, raw egg for smoothing the hair, and someone to handle shoe cleaning. Bertha was deeply shocked when she found out there was no servants’ hall and that we ate and sat in the kitchen of an evening. Such was her indignation that I thought it diplomatic to invite her into my parlour, and from then on she saw it as a kind of “pug’s parlour” for the upper servants and used it regularly. My lack of privacy was irritating, but more so was the way she preferred to sit at dying embers in my grate rather than dirtying her pretty hand to throw on a log or pump the bellows.
At first I found Bertha’s stories of working at the Harrington’s interesting, but soon I began to suspect that most were stretching the truth considerably. She had never asked about my previous employment and did not know I had worked in a larger household before and could recognise a farfetched tale when I heard one! As she told her stories, Bertha was usually busy doing some fine work on one of her ladies’ dresses or hats. She had been horrified to learn that we sent our laundry to several faithful village women to clean in their own cottages. I explained that their work was faultless, but she shuddered to think of her ladies’ undergarments flapping around in a villager’s garden for all and sundry to behold. This, of course, led to my parlour looking like a laundry room, with various items of clothing hanging to dry on a clothes-horse we had managed to find for the job. My desk was regularly covered with a blanket and used as an ironing board, despite the fact that I had more accounting to do and orders to write than usual. I was gradually learning that the wonderfully natural and spontaneous look that Miss Sophia prided herself in actually took hours of careful preparation and planning.
As Bertha was gradually taking over below stairs, the visitors were settling in above. During her previous stay, Mrs. Harrington had been a polite guest and expressed some wry amusement at the bachelor and provincial ways in which the house was run, but now she had a very different attitude. She was on a mission to sort the household out single-handedly before her poor daughter found herself the mistress of such an ill-run establishment. She seemed to think that Mr. Thorpe was a dear boy but slightly incompetent in knowing how to organise a house, and I soon got the impression she thought I was the main cause of the poor management.
Before she had been in the house forty-eight hours, I was summoned to Mr. Thorpe’s study, where I was surprised to find a gathering of Mr. Thorpe (looking a trifle uncomfortable), Mrs. Harrington, and Miss Sophia. Mrs. Harrington was the self-appointed spokeswoman and instructed me to get my accounts book so it could be examined. Mr. Thorpe had never looked in the household accounts book, despite my asking. He always laughed off the matter, saying he trusted me entirely and, anyway, disliked wading through columns of figures. As I hastened to get the book, which I found under a pile of Bertha’s ironing, I was thankful that I had kept up the accounts so meticulously. I also kept all receipts and invoices for two months, so I took those along too.
The ladies sat at the table, and Mr. Thorpe was pacing around behind them. If Mrs. Harrington had had her own way, I believe she would have made me stand throughout the interview, but thankfully Miss Sophia kindly invited me to sit down. Mrs. Harrington appeared to find my accounts disappointingly thorough, but she asked a few questions nevertheless, mainly to do with the amount of food required whilst Mr. Thorpe had been away. When I explained the number of staff we had, she immediately questioned as to who the Kemps were, and I explained their history.
“Oh really, Edward!” she exclaimed. “You are not running a charity. Surely it is time to move them on.”
I looked at Edward, silently willing him to speak up on their behalf, but he merely smiled at his mother-in-law-to-be and said it was under consideration.
After making a few strong suggestions to Edward that the staff have less expensive cuts of meat and butter or jam but not both, Mrs. Harrington ploughed on in her investigations and began exploring our roles. She cross-questioned me about my daily tasks and all went well until she asked me what I normally did during the afternoons.
“I go for a walk with Rex, ma’am,” I replied.
“Rex? Who is Rex? Is he a follower?” she asked, glaring at me suspiciously as if I had sinned.
“No, ma’am, in fact, I normally follow him. Rex is Mr. Thorpe’s dog,” I answered, noting a smile beginning to creep onto Mr. Thorpe’s face, a smile that he hastily wiped away with his hand.
“What an unusual state of affairs—and do not be impertinent!” exclaimed Mrs. Harrington, leaning forward. “Why do you not delegate this task?”
“Why, ma’am, because I enjoy it, and the fresh air is beneficial.”
“Enjoy?” she spluttered. “Enjoyment is hardly a reason. You should be guided by duty, not enjoyment. Do you think you are paid a wage to roam the countryside? Are you aware of these unorthodox arrangements, Mr. Thorpe?”
Mr. Thorpe shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Yes, I am, and I am grateful for Reb— err—Miss Stubbs’ care of Rex in my absence.”
Miss Sophia intervened by saying, “Mother, is this intrusive investigation quite necessary?” only to be severely rounded on by her mother.
“My dear girl, one cannot be intrusive as far as servants are concerned. It is one’s right to know their doings.” Then, mixing her metaphors, “Details are the building blocks fo
r the smooth running of any household.” She fixed her steely gaze on me. “Stubbs, I hope you realise what a generous employer you are fortunate enough to have in Mr. Thorpe and that you do not presume upon his good nature.”
I nodded demurely and said, “I am indeed grateful for his kindness, ma’am.”
Mr. Thorpe, meanwhile, continued to pace to and fro behind the table, and somehow it was rather irritating. Miss Sophia must have felt the same, for she patted a seat next to her and said, “Darling Edward, please take a seat.” When he did as he was bidden, she laid her hand on his knee and looked happier.
The interrogation then moved on to the roles of the other staff. Another snort of disgust came when I revealed that Molly and Clara had interchangeable roles.
“How utterly absurd!” Mrs. Harrington exclaimed. “How do they know their order of rank and where to sit at meal times?”
“Ma’am, we sit anywhere at meal times, and as for who does what, having both of them trained for all jobs gives us greater flexibility when we need it. For example, when entertaining guests, we can all clean, tend the fire, serve at the table, or wash up.”
“My word, Stubbs, you are rather opinionated, are you not?” she answered scathingly.
I was pleased when Miss Sophia intervened.
“She has a good point, Mother.”
Miss Sophia was quickly silenced by her mother’s lengthy lecture on staff needing to know their place, watching their superiors, so working diligently to move up the ranks and be rewarded with more responsibility. “Rather than,” she said, giving me a withering look, “being unguidedly given responsibility after very little experience and becoming conceited with their own perceived wisdom.”
Then the Kemps and their role came up, and I knew we were skating on very thin ice. Mrs. Kemp’s involvement by cooking for staff meals was satisfactory, but how could I explain that Mr. Kemp did little more than polish the silver, sharpen knives, and rub Rex dry? I stretched the truth as much as possible without lying, as I explained the Kemps’ important contribution to the smooth running of the house, but the wool could not be pulled over the formidable matriarch’s eyes, and once again she encouraged Mr. Thorpe to hasten their departure.
To conclude the interview, Mrs. Harrington reiterated to me the benevolence of Mr. Thorpe in being so understanding, if not indulgent, to his staff, and that this was not to be abused. She indicated that there would be changes in the future to increase the efficiency of workforce and to ensure no one “got above themselves.” Then, with a dismissive wave of her hand, she said, “and that will do, Stubbs.”
I removed myself rather shakily from the room. As I retreated to my parlour, I pondered over the event. Some things were now obvious. Mrs. Harrington did not like me, Mr. Thorpe would be of little use to help, and Miss Sophia might prove to be the best of them all. But, I reflected, I could not count on this as her mother saw her as but a naive child and would not let her run her own household until she was sure it would be run in ruthless Harrington fashion.
The idea that maybe it was time to leave Biggenden began to grow in my mind, but what was I to do instead? And where would I go?
Of course, when I arrived at my parlour, I did not have the luxury of solitude; Bertha was there doing what I had rather grimly begun to think of as her never-ending fiddling about. For once, I had the courage to ask her to leave. I knew this would cause her a problem as she entered the kitchen only when absolutely necessary and then with an air of condescension. But right at that moment, I did not care for her petty sensibilities. She looked surprised, but after a big show of organising what she needed, she vacated the room. I slumped into my chair with my head in my hands, trying to take in how this new, heavy-handed management would affect the staff who, for all their minor failings, I considered my friends—something else Mrs. Harrington would not approve of.
At first, I felt slightly triumphant at managing to give coherent answers to the formidable lady, but then I happened to catch a glance of myself in the looking glass. There, on my left cheek, was a large streak of soot. I shuddered to think that I had been wearing this throughout the interview, and suddenly I saw how highlighted my servitude and lowly position. It reminded me that I could not dream of halting or even just slowing the fast flowing tide of change the Harringtons wanted to make, even though it would greatly affect the lives of all the staff and myself. Servants were two-a-penny and entirely dispensable: we either changed with the Harringtons or would be shown the door.
CHAPTER 21
AFTER I HAD GATHERED MY thoughts, I asked Agnes if she could step inside my parlour. She was busy getting lunch ready and had only had a few minutes to spare, but it was long enough to give her a summary of Mrs. Harrington’s thoughts. Agnes looked so downcast at the news that I felt sorry I had burdened her by confiding in her. She, like the other maids, had only ever been employed at Biggenden, and the thought of change scared her. Agnes’ cooking skills had flourished over the last year: whereas I would be happy to call her an excellent cook, she felt uneasy even calling herself a cook, preferring to think of herself as a kitchen maid. The thought of her skills and produce being scrutinised by the fastidious and fashionable Harringtons made her feel so uneasy that she looked as if she would immediately “throw in the towel” and confine herself to her former duties. I fervently reassured her that not a word had been said against any meal by anyone in the room, but that did little to hearten her.
Agnes returned to the kitchen looking miserable. Oh, how I wished that I had not breathed a word to her! I needed to protect my staff, not lean on them for support. I briefly smiled to myself at the silly pun of not leaning on my staff, but then I tried to focus my mind on the business of the day.
The visit of the Harringtons continued as the party engaged themselves in indoor and outdoor pursuits, invited neighbours around, and visited local notable families. We servants worked hard and long hours. We pieced together little tidbits of conversation we heard about the future of Biggenden. It was not ours to know the full plans and often probably got the wrong end of the stick, but as far as we could understand, the library was to become a billiard room, an extra wing might be added for a master bedchamber suite, and Miss Sophia was keen to have a conservatory. Rex was deemed unfit for indoor living and was banished to a kennel in the back yard. Men servants were to be employed as footmen because having maids answering the door and serving at the table was deemed too provincial. The attic above the new wing would house the men. I waited with bated breath for Mrs. Harrington to visit the kitchens and discover the Kemps’ sleeping quarters, almost relishing her anticipated horror, but it seemed that she was not interested in our quarters as long as the food was up to standard. The only “below stairs” alteration she insisted on was the building of a laundry room so that washing would not have to be taken into the village.
I was curious to know Mr. Thorpe’s opinion on the radical changes but was not to have the privilege of being privy to them. Once or twice he came to my parlour door with some request or other and looked as if he wanted to tarry and talk, but on finding Bertha there, he did not stay. His general demeanour was that of a man madly in love and willing to allow anything in order to get his prize. He was keen to get married as quickly as possible, but Sophia wanted a summer wedding, and her mother insisted that the building work should be completed first, believing that the dust and inconvenience of workmen was incompatible with an appropriate start to married life. Mr. Thorpe playfully chided his betrothed for making him suffer such a long wait; she relished hearing these loving arguments and answered sweetly but remained adamant.
What, you may ask, was Mr. Harrington doing while his wife was inflicting sweeping changes on the household? I had rather underestimated the man, thinking he was interested only in field sports and cigars, but soon my esteem for him rose. After a few days at Biggenden, he departed home, citing “other engagements.” I later learned from Bertha that he was on a committee of benevolent gentlemen who had organise
d the building of a cottage hospital for the poor in their locality. Mr. Harrington had gone home in order to be present for the interviewing of candidates for a resident physician. I was glad to hear of his benevolence and hoped this trait would soon blossom in his daughter also.
Bertha’s irritatingly frequent presence in my parlour and inability to work silently proved interesting at times. Once I had become used to her exaggerated devotion to the Harringtons, I learned to pick out relevant nuggets of truth. It transpired that the Harringtons’ residence, Kenwood, was not as grand or large as I had visualised. Apparently, it was slightly smaller than Barton Manor and certainly had less acreage. They did not own a property in London, but rented the same house every year for the London season. I was slightly relieved to hear all this, as Mrs. Harrington gave the distinct impression that although Mr. Thorpe was a nice chap, he was slightly below their status and, although she was graciously overlooking the fact, she could never quite forget it and would be pleased if no one else did either.
The Harrington ladies stayed for ten long days, and then they departed to prepare Kenwood for the Christmas festivities. Mr. Thorpe tarried a few more days at Biggenden and caught up with estate management. He consulted his estate steward about the various proposed changes to the house, and between them they contracted planners who had links to reputable builders. Mr. Thorpe invited me to join him for evening drinks as in fore time, and I obliged, but without the romantic hope of gaining his interest, the evenings had lost their allure for me.
Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter Page 15