‘Yes. So we’d better try to be the first in line in the mornings, eh?’
‘The only thing to look forward to is the day we leave here – William is hoping to get a bigger house when he gets a job. He would take us in if he could.’ Rebecca was optimistic.
Keturah said, ‘Even if that doesn’t happen, we won’t have to stay here when we are old enough to go into service – but the poor boys will be here much longer.’
When they went down to the dining hall, they were shown where to sit at the long table. The knives and forks were laid out on the bare wood with a mug in each place. They spotted their brothers a little further along across the table and managed a few words before the superintendent arrived to say grace.
There was only a year between the boys, Jonathan was nine and Joseph, eight, but Jonathan was a big, sturdy boy whereas Joseph was small and puny for his age. Jonathan told them that he was now known as Ebenezer (his second name) as there were other boys with his first name.
Keturah sympathised. ‘And I am now Hannah! I like the name, but I still feel like Keturah.’
‘Well, I will never like being Ebenezer!’
‘Cheer up,’ Rebecca said; she was never down for long. ‘The dinner smells good!’
There was a sudden hush as the superintendent stood at the head of the table, hands folded together, his keen gaze on every face in turn. He waited until the children were all standing, before in ringing tones came the familiar words: For what we are about to receive . . .
‘Moses!’ Rebecca whispered to Keturah, as they bowed their heads. He was very tall with long, white hair and an even longer beard, like pictures in the Sunday school texts.
Plates were passed from one to the other to the end of the table. There was a generous slice of salt beef, a plump Norfolk dumpling, two large potatoes, diced carrots and dark greens. The gravy was in a jug and the children poured it carefully on the food. There was a thick slice of bread for each of them. Water was limited to half a mug per child. The drinking water was pumped up in the yard once a day. They ate in silence. It was good food, well cooked and there were no complaints.
‘Oh, we’re in luck – rice pudding!’ Becca whispered, hoping for some of the brown skin on top. But there was no home-made raspberry jam and cream as they had with this pudding at home.
Wicklewood really was as ‘cold as charity’ with only one fireplace in the big day room. The floor was always clean, but very chilly to the feet as all floors were either brick or tiled, and there were no mats. The day room was below the level of the adjoining yard which meant the floor was also damp in winter. In fact, all the rooms were bare and cheerless with no comfortable furniture, just hard chairs and a square table in the centre of the workroom.
That night the two girls slept fitfully, for the straw prickled their faces as they lay on the hard pillows, the blankets were adequate but of harsh wool, and the mattress rustled as they tossed and turned. They thought of their brothers and hoped they were together, as they were. They wouldn’t allow themselves to cry.
They didn’t know that Emma and Jerusha shed tears for them all.
*
Emma wrote regularly to her siblings and, being in Wymondham, was able to visit Wicklewood at times specified by the matron, but she wept in private after she left. It was such a grim place, but she was consoled by the thought that Keturah and Rebecca supported each other. It seemed much harder for her brothers. Joseph, who was often ill, could barely read and write, but Jonathan was doing well at lessons, although the Wicklewood children, conspicuous in their workhouse clothes, were picked on by some of the other schoolchildren. It was Jonathan who fought back on his brother’s behalf, and suffered a bloody nose on occasion.
William had secured a new job on a bigger farm, with a tied cottage. At Christmas, the first since they left home, the children at Wicklewood were allowed to join them for two weeks. No doubt they hoped they would be able to stay longer, but the house was not much bigger than the cottage where William and Sarah had lived since their marriage, and they had four children of their own. Reluctantly, the boys and girls returned to Wicklewood, with the promise of a summer holiday to help with the harvest.
*
Rebecca clung to her sister when Keturah emerged from Matron’s office, clutching a letter in her hand. ‘What happened?’ she asked fearfully. Such summons invariably meant censure of some sort for often a minor demeanour.
‘I will be fourteen next week and I suppose I should have known this was coming,’ Keturah replied. ‘I will leave Wicklewood and’ – she flourished the letter – ‘this is from the – place – they have found me.’
‘Oh, but that’s good news, isn’t it?’ Rebecca glanced around, but they were not observed, so she gave Keturah a hug.
‘You’ll miss me though, won’t you?’ Keturah wiped away tears with her sleeve.
‘Course I will, but I’m going to work hard at my lessons and you’ll write to me, won’t you, and I’ll still be here to keep an eye on the boys. And Ket, you’ll be able to wear nice clothes again.’
She brightened at this, remembering how earlier Matron had said, ‘You’re a young woman now,’ in a disapproving tone. Keturah was conscious of her changing shape and was aware that the one-size-fits-all, from skinny to well-built, of the Wicklewood clothing did nothing to enhance it. She was good at sewing, she thought, so that could be an advantage. She would take her bundle, but only for sentimental reasons.
Rebecca, at twelve, was still straight up and down, which met with Matron’s approval. ‘Young women’ were sent out into the world, but a few of them inevitably returned, usually with a baby in arms. The facts of life were never discussed with girls in care, though morality was heavily emphasised in the superintendent’s daily homilies. But the euphemisms went over the girls’ heads.
So Keturah left Wicklewood for good in 1857 and worked as a mother’s help in Great Yarmouth for a family of modest means, who treated her well.
Rebecca, resilient as always, enjoyed her school days and although she was unaware of this, she was actually Matron’s favourite, and consequently was found a good place a year later as house servant to a solicitor’s clerk in Wymondham. Later she also worked in Great Yarmouth where her elderly employers became fond of the cheerful, articulate girl who brightened their rather mundane lives. Like Keturah, Rebecca loved living near the sea and, best of all, she could meet up now and then with her sister.
Then it was Jonathan’s turn to leave Wicklewood, at an earlier age than his sisters; he was twelve and apprenticed to a shoemaker. Sadly, his ailing young brother Joseph did not live long after they were parted, but Joseph spent his last days with William and Sarah, who loved and cared for him as one of their own family.
*
Emma had been with Milady for two years when she began to peruse advertisements for cooks in London. Emma’s well-written letter stood her in good stead when she applied for the post of cook-housekeeper. She was now twenty years old, although she thought she had more chance of the job by saying she was twenty-three! She was accepted by return of post and soon she was off to London, to Kensington, to work in an even grander house!
TEN
Emma
London, January, 1861
When Emma awoke, she wondered for a moment where she was, for she had arrived quite late at the house in South Kensington after travelling for the first time by train. This had been a somewhat unnerving experience, with all the steam and smoke from the great engine and the sight of folk scurrying along the platforms, worried that the whistle might blow and the train would depart before they could find an empty carriage and climb thankfully inside. The rector had escorted her to Norwich to catch the afternoon train to London and made sure she was safely settled with her trunk, her hand luggage and a book to read. She was in a Ladies Only compartment, but her companions were engrossed in their magazines and did not speak to her or to each other. When she reached her destination, she obeyed instructions to wait
for a hansom cab sent by her new employer. The driver, identifying himself, reassured her that Mr Summers had paid for the journey in advance. ‘I know the gentleman well, I often calls there.’
This was another new experience for Emma. The hansom bowled along on two huge wheels, and she had to be assisted up into the cab. The driver sat on high behind the cab, controlling the horse out front with reins that stretched across the roof. It was fortunate that Emma didn’t realise the only part of the horse visible to the driver was its expressive ears. The front of the cab was open so she was provided with a rug over her knees and was thankful it wasn’t raining or snowing. Communication with the cabbie was only possible through a trap door in the roof, but fortunately it was not necessary for her to contact him as the journey was uneventful.
Even at dusk, the three-storey, white-stuccoed building in the exclusive crescent, with its balconied upper windows, decorative cast-iron railed steps leading to the basement and wider steps to the impressive double front door, appeared to Emma to be like a fairy-tale palace in a children’s picture book. It was the end house, next to the railed and gated communal gardens to which all residents possessed a key. An elderly retainer opened the door, ushered her in, and her belongings were carried into her quarters on the ground floor, a bedroom which led to a private sanctum where she could relax when she finished work. Beyond was the servants’ hall. She was relieved she wouldn’t have to climb the many stairs to the top floor where the other staff had their bedrooms.
‘Mr Summers and his sisters are at dinner. He suggests you have supper in your room, the maid will bring it to you and tell you where everything is. Mr Summers will see you tomorrow after you have recovered from your journey. The family wish you a restful night.’
After the poached eggs on toast and a pot of tea, brought to her by a pleasant girl who introduced herself as Nan, the under housemaid, Emma slept well in a comfortable brass-railed bed with gleaming knobs – she was cosy because a warming pan had been placed in the bed earlier and the blankets were soft woollen ones beneath a pretty hand-sewn patchwork quilt.
‘Mr Summers’ sisters made that,’ the young maid said when Emma admired it. Emma was aware there were three of them, unmarried ladies, and that Mr Summers was a widower, a solicitor, with a daughter, Frances, who went to an Academy for Young Ladies. There were also two sons, but as Mr Summers wrote in his introductory letter, they were boarders at Westminster School and only at home in the holidays. He also mentioned, ‘It is a busy kitchen, for my sisters often entertain friends from the church.’
She sat up in bed, plumped the pillow behind her and turned up the wick on the nightlight on the bedside cabinet. She gazed around the room. There was a framed text on the wall, embroidered in coloured wool. His mercy is everlasting. She wondered which sister had done that. She reached for her Bible, which she always read for ten minutes each morning before rising.
There was a tap on the door, and another young maid brought in a can of steaming water. She placed it on the washstand, with its tiles patterned with yellow tulips. ‘Good morning, Cook. I hope you slept well?’ she asked politely, adding, ‘Slops will be collected later.’ She indicated the cupboard below the washstand in which the chamber pot was concealed. This matched the yellow bowl and jug, soap dish and hair-pin holder. A flannel and hand towel were provided. What luxury! Emma thought.
‘Thank you, I slept very well indeed.’ She smiled at the girl, who suppressed a yawn as she opened the door. It was only just past six o’clock. She paused in the doorway for a moment or two.
‘Cook – Mrs Love – made sure you would have everything in place before she went yesterday. She’s gone to look after her old parents. I was told to wish you all the best.’
‘It was kind of her to take so much trouble,’ Emma said. ‘I’ve never stepped out of bed on to a sheepskin rug before!’
After she had washed and dressed, she made her bed, and unpacked some of her things into the tall chest of drawers. She felt confident and smart in her new black dress and capacious snow-white apron and cap. The keys on her belt, which she had been given yesterday, jingled pleasantly. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror, thinking, I look just like Mother with my hair parted in the middle and in a knot in the nape of my neck. What would dear father say? ‘Bootiful!’ Then she went along the hall, down a short flight of steps to the big basement kitchen and through the double, baize-covered swing doors where she explored her new domain.
There was a sturdy, well-scrubbed table with two drawers where she would do most of her preparations for meals. One of the drawers contained lists of tradesmen who called regularly, a ledger of household accounts, which she was expected to record meticulously, and a locked black cash box. In the other drawer were recipes written by several hands, a ball of string and a set of Apostle teaspoons. She admired the rows of gleaming copper pans, the huge dresser with its display of blue-and-white plates, mixing bowls, jugs in various sizes, large tureens, and the locked canister of tea to which only she kept the key. In the cupboards were sacks of flour and dried fruit. She looked in the larder at the goods, which had to be replenished regularly, everything in its place on slabs of marble. Most impressive of all was the coal-fired range with the oven to one side and a tank on the other, which provided hot water through a tap, but required much topping up with cold water each day. The cast-iron kettle on the hob was steaming gently. It would soon be time for the staff to gather for their breakfast, which Emma was about to make, and after that there were the jugged kippers for the family breakfast to be delivered to the ground-floor dining room by dumb waiter. The maids, she guessed, were now laying the table there.
Emma went through into the scullery, hearing a clatter within. Nan, the youngest maid, kept it spotlessly clean. They had met briefly last night and Emma guessed Nan was the first to begin work in the mornings and the last to leave at night. She didn’t live in but had a long walk from a less salubrious part of the city where she lived with her aunt, whom Emma had yet to meet. She was the washerwoman employed here on Mondays to deal with the household linen. The maids hand-washed the ladies’ delicate garments and pressed them with flat-irons.
Nan looked up from washing up the family’s early morning cups and saucers in the sink. She was small and thin with a sallow complexion and an anxious expression. She dried her hands, sore from the soda in the hot water, hastily on her over-apron which was made of sacking. ‘Good mornin’, Cook. Is everythin’ orlright?’
Emma smiled reassuringly. ‘Yes, Nan, it is.’ She made a mental note to mix up a solution of glycerine and rose water into a salve for Nan to rub into her hands. She added, ‘You do a good job black-leading the stove. It really shines.’
‘It’ll be greasy agin by tomorrer,’ Nan said with a rueful grin, which reminded Emma of her youngest sister Rebecca, whose cheerfulness in adversity helped her sister and brothers to cope with life in the workhouse.
‘Can you find me a large pan to fry the bacon, please? Then I’ll be grateful if you would crack a dozen eggs and whisk them in a bowl, so I can scramble those. Add a little top of the milk and salt and pepper—’
‘Bacon!’ Nan said in awe. ‘We on’y had it on Sundays before, and scrambling eggs is me fav’rite!’
The young maids were back from delivering the cans of hot water to the Summers family in their bedrooms on the second floor and ready for breakfast before they tackled the rest of the morning chores. Like Nan, they sniffed appreciatively: ‘Bacon! Thanks, Cook.’
‘Emma,’ she said, ‘call me Emma, everyone does. I know you are Lily and Rose.’
‘And I am Anna, the parlourmaid,’ a newcomer introduced herself, smiling.
This was Anna Lister, Isabella’s sister and TF and Rob’s aunt. The two of them would become lifelong friends, but of course they weren’t aware of that then.
*
The post of cook-housekeeper was an important one. Emma would discuss the day’s menu with Miss Maria, the eldest Miss Summers, each m
orning after breakfast was over, until it was time for them all to assemble for morning prayers in the drawing room. She was already aware that she would be responsible for the purchase of meat, poultry, fish, and vegetables in season, eggs and dairy products, as well as keeping the store cupboard well-stocked, all within a designated budget. She was expected to enquire about bargain buys from the tradesmen who called at the house. After that she must keep account of every item to add to the lists in the table drawer. These would be inspected periodically by her employer, who would also replenish the petty cash.
On her first morning, she was excused the menu appraisal and prayers as Mr Summers had asked to see her in the library before he left for his office.
Mr Summers was a kindly man in his early forties, with a good head of hair fashionably parted in the centre and Dundreary whiskers: sideburns with a full, bushy beard and an impressive moustache. He invariably wore dark, single-breasted jackets with narrow legged, checked trousers and a silk cravat rather than a necktie tucked under his high white collar. Mr Summers seemed a trifle overwhelmed at times, being the sole male in a house full of females apart from his manservant, whose duties were few now he was old, although he had the key to the cellar and kept an eye on the wine, especially when the two lively boys, aged sixteen and seventeen, were at home. ‘Boys will be boys,’ Mr Summers, a modest drinker himself, observed tolerantly. When the chatter in the drawing room in the evenings became rather too animated, particularly if his sisters were joined by other ladies, he would make his apologies and retreat to the library, with its shelves full of legal books, and study the sheaf of papers brought home from his office.
He had been a widower for some years, his wife having died when their daughter, Frances, was less than a year old. Actually, Frances had known her mother hardly at all, for the older Frances had been an invalid and was sent with a nurse to Brighton for the sea air. In the last resort, she was sent to a sanatorium in Capri, where sadly she passed away. The baby was cared for by a nanny until she went to school.
The Forget-Me-Not Girl Page 9