“What house is that, Barnes?’’ demanded Sophia, looking at it with the pleased eyes of conscious ownership. “Who lives in it? It is one of the prettiest things I ever saw in my life. It can’t be one of the lodges, for they are more than a quarter of a mile from the house, if I mistake not.”
“Oh dear no, ma’am, that’s no lodge,” replied Mrs. Barnes. “It is but a small house, but it’s a deal larger than any lodge.”
“Does anybody live in it?”
“Yes, ma’am, an old man called Arthur Giles has lived in it for years.”
“But what in the world was it built for, so dose to the mansion house? It must be a part of the property?”
“Oh! dear yes, ma’am, it is part of the property,” said Mrs. Barnes with great decision, but without adding another word.
“Can you not explain to me, Mrs. Barnes, something about it?” said her mistress. “It seems very strange to me to see a beautiful little place like that, stuck close behind the great house, as if it were a baby-house to please the children with.”
Mrs. Barnes said not a word in reply. Her loquacity seemed to have come altogether to an end.
“Who was it that built it, Mrs. Barnes?” demanded Sophia: “was it Mr. Thorpe?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Why did he build it? Do you know?”
“He built it, ma’am, for a poor relation of his wife, my late dear mistress. It was very beautifully fitted up then.”
Had the faculties of Miss Martin Thorpe been at all at leisure, they would probably have enabled her to perceive a little causticity in this short reply, and the accent in which it was spoken; but they were not. Her attention was wholly occupied in accurately examining this newly-discovered piece of property, and her next words were.... “And pray who may Arthur Giles be? and what rent does he pay?”
“Arthur Giles, ma’am, was the favourite servant of my young master, before he went away, and he does not pay any rent at all.”
“And why, Barnes, did my uncle put him in such a place as that to live, instead of keeping him in the dwelling-house with the other servants?”
“Arthur Giles, ma’am, was the most famous groom and rider in all these parts; and my master used to let him break the young horses that was bred on the place, from the Arab pair that he brought with him from Spain. He broke his right arm, ma’am, in doing some unaccountable rash thing to please Mr. Cornelius; and it was forced to be cut off, leaving him a useless cripple for the rest of his life. Mr. Cornelius almost lost his senses about it, because it was altogether his own doing, and spite of all his faults he was both kind-hearted and generous; and as my mistress’s old aunt died just about the same time, nothing would satisfy our young gentleman but putting Arthur Giles and his wife to live in that house.... and there they have bided ever since.”
“And, for goodness’ sake, what do they live upon? A Strange wild scheme it seems to have been, I must say,” said the young lady. “His living, ma’am, was provided for, when the house was given him. The estate is charged with one hundred pounds a year clear for their use and benefit, as long as either of them shall remain alive,” replied the housekeeper, concisely.
Miss Martin Thorpe coloured. “How old are these people?” said she.
“I cannot justly say their exact age, ma’am. They are very hale and hearty, both of them,” replied Mrs Barnes.
“Show me the other rooms,” said her mistress, turning from the window.
Mrs. Barnes obeyed in silence, conducting the young lady from room to room over the whole floor. A wide range of buildings, surrounding the stableyard, contained sleeping rooms sufficient for the men-servants of a large family, but those for the females (excepting Mrs. Barnes’ own apartment, which was on the ground-floor) were all in this part of the house; and on arriving at the first of these, the housekeeper made a dead stop before the door, and said very demurely—” This is the sleeping room of the kitchen-maid: do you wish to see it, ma’am?”
There was a little shade of sauciness, or rather satire in the accent with which this was said, which probably would not have been indulged in, if Mrs. Barnes had not possessed an income of equal amount, and equally well secured as that of Mr. Arthur Giles; but nevertheless it did not sufficiently approach the impertinent, to call for any immediate notice, and Miss Martin Thorpe walked on saying, “No, Mrs. Barnes, there is no occasion to take me into the servants rooms, I presume that they are such rooms as ought to be appropriated to them, and that they are kept in decent order. Where does my own maid sleep?”
“At the top of a little staircase leading straight up from the side passage that was by what was my master’s room. It was the room in which the lady’s-maid slept in Mrs. Thorpe’s time, and seems as if it was made so handy and convenient on purpose.”
“No doubt of it. The arrangement is a very good one.” These words seemed to have broken the silence which had succeeded the heiress’s somewhat loquacious dissertations on the various rooms of her mansion, previous to her visit to the one she had assigned for the use of Major and Mrs. Heathcote. Her talkative vein appeared now to return upon her, and she said. “Let us return, Barnes, to those nice pleasant rooms on both sides the first passage we got into on coming up stairs; those, I mean, that are close by Mrs. Heathcote’s room,”
“Mrs. Heathcote’s room, ma’am? The one she slept in at Christmas?”
Miss Martin Thorpe knitted her brows. “No, Mrs. Barnes, the one that I told you she was to sleep in now.”
Mrs. Barnes said ne more, but silently preceded her mistress to the locality she had indicated, and threw open successively the three doors nearest that of Mrs. Heathcote’s predestined chamber, viz the one to the right, the one to the left, and the one opposite. Sophia entered them all in rotation. “Delightful rooms, I am sure, all of them,” she said. “It certainly is an excellent house. About the three girls that are going to school, I don’t think it necessary to settle anything at present... Perhaps.... but it is time enough to talk about that, when the time comes... But here is a most pleasant room, with a straight ceiling, and two pretty windows with the most beautiful view, without comparison, in the whole house. I think, Mrs. Barnes, that I must give this charming room to my cousin Florence: but it is larger than any one person can want, and therefore I will have the bed from the next room brought in here and put into that corner for the two little boys. They always slept in the same bed together at Clevelands. It will be a great convenience to have their half-sister in the same room with them, for she has always been accustomed to make herself useful at home, and I know that she will like to go on doing the same here. And it is quite right and proper she should, poor thing! for there is nothing in the world so cruel as making young people, who must get their own bread in the end, fancy themselves too fine to work. See that the bed is moved, Barnes, and whatever washing things put in, that you think necessary but nothing very costly of course, because you know there is no answering for children. However, there will be a great deal to do, I dare say, in different ways, so you need not hurry about it; they will not be coming directly, for I certainly shall not have them in the house till the workmen are out of it.
Miss Martin Thorpe then left the room, and descended the stairs which brought her to the door of that apartment, the first visit to which had been so highly advantageous to her style of hairdressing.
She again entered, and again examined it attentively. “I have quite made up my mind to occupy these two rooms myself, Barnes,” she said; “but they must, of course, be newly fitted up. What is the distance to the nearest place where I can get post-horses?”
“About a mile and a-half, ma’am, on the Hereford road,” was the reply.
“Then let William immediately take the horse that I know Mr. Thorpe used to employ for errands, and order a pair of posthorses for me, to be here as soon as possible. I will drive over to Hereford before dinner.”
“Shall I take your orders about dinner, now, ma’am, or return after I have sent off
the groom?” inquired the housekeeper.
“By all means send for the horses first. I wish to set off with as little delay as may be.”
When her messenger returned, she found the heiress reckoning the number of breadths in the Brussels carpet which covered the drawing-room; the apartment above it, being the same size, would require as many, and the calculation was one of some anxiety. But on the arrival of the housekeeper, it was suspended.
“You are come about dinner, Barnes?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you remember the carrot soup we used to have at Christmas?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You may let me have a little of that, every day, till further orders.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
So far the dialogue proceeded without any difficulty, but Sophia found it necessary to reflect for a moment before she went on.
“Have you any game in the house, Barnes?” she said at length.
“No, ma’am,” was the unsatisfactory reply.
“How is that? You have known of my intended arrival for this fortnight past. How came you not to think of getting in a provision of game?”
“I have no means of procuring it, at present, ma’am.”
“Why so? We had game in the greatest abundance when we were here at Christmas — three times a day, I remember; I remarked it particularly. What is the reason you cannot get it now? The season is not over.”
“No, ma’am, the season isn’t over; but Sir Charles Temple has left the country, and all our game came from him.”
“But, surely, with all the fine woods that we hare about the place, there must be plenty of game, without going to Sir Charles Temple for it?”
“Oh, dear! yes, ma’am, the woods are full; but Sir Charles Temple is lord of the manor.”
Miss Martin Thorpe coloured. “Dear me! is there no right of shooting here? that is very disagreeable. I suppose that Sir Charles Temple will not object to my people shooting for my own table.”
“I can’t say, I’m sure, ma’am,” replied the housekeeper, with an air of greater indifference than became her station in the household. “But I don’t believe that Sir Charles, when he is abroad, interferes at all. The game-keeper manages the whole business.” —
“Then the game-keeper must be sent to, Barnes: of course, he will be permitted to supply me?”
“No doubt about it, ma’am,” replied Barnes, readily; “he sells the game to all the families round about. Temple is counted the finest manor and the best preserved in the whole county.”
“Sells it?” replied Sophia, again knitting her brows.
“Yes, ma’am; the keeper disposes of a vast quantity, enough, as they say, to pay all the expenses of keepers, dogs, and all the rest of it.”
“Then, if there is no game, you may get me what you will, provided it is nice. I eat very little, that is, I want very few dishes on the table; but I am very particular about having nothing but the nicest things, dressed in the nicest manner, and with little nice things, such as mushrooms, you know, Mrs. Barnes, and the like, for stews and sauces. In short, in a small way, I want to have my dinners as nearly as possible like what we had here last Christmas. I was perfectly satisfied then, and I have only to desire that you will go on in the same manner, remembering, of course, that however excellent it may be in quality the quantity for one person must comparatively be very little.”
“That is quite true, ma’am,” replied Mrs. Barnes, doing her very best to look solemn, and respectful; “but of course, ma’am, you know that those sort of dinners, or only a small part of them, require to have the house thoroughly well supplied with all things needful for a good family; and I could not take the liberty of doing that till I had received orders.”
“Then pray wait no longer; you have now my orders to get everything necessary for my having a perfectly nice dinner every day.”
“When we were preparing for the party at Christmas, ma am,” said the housekeeper, rather maliciously, “my master sent the list that I made out to Fordham’s. Is it your pleasure that the same thing should be done now?”
“Ford ham?.... does he live at Hereford? Perhaps I could call there to-day “No, ma’am,” replied the old woman, pursing up her mouth, “Mr. Fordham does not live at Hereford, but in Piccadilly.”
“And pray what sort of things does he sell?”
“Potted meats, dried meats, hams, tongues, pâtés, consommés, sauces, glazes, fruits dried, preserved, and in jelly, truffles, caviare, laver, pickles.... oh, dear me, ma’am! these and a thousand other things besides, that it is quite impossible to think over, all of a minute,” replied the housekeeper, absolutely out of breath.
“Well, we must see about it,” replied her mistress, a little alarmed. “But, at any rate, let me have some luncheon now, and a nice little dinner when I return from my drive, if it is nothing more than a roast chicken and bread sauce, a nice tart, with some cream, a very small dish of stewed cheese, with a little salad, and some trifle of dessert, preserved ginger making part of it. And it is as well to say at once, Barnes, that I shall never wish to dine, when I am alone, without having some preserved ginger. I eat it whenever I can, because it agrees so particularly well with me.”
“I’ll do the best I can, ma’am,” returned Mrs. Barnes, “but the ginger you had yesterday was a little left from what was sent in at Christmas, and I doubt if there is as much more of it remaining in the jar.”
The looks of the heiress were in a trifling degree overclouded at hearing this, and for a moment she was silent; but just as Mrs. Barnes turned to leave the room, she said in rather a sharper and more decided tone than usual, “Then in that case, Barnes, you had better make out your list for this Fordham at once. It would be exceedingly absurd, with my fortune, to deny myself what I know so particularly agrees with my health; but in making the list, you must remember that it is only when I dine entirely alone, or else with quite a show-off party, (which I shall have very seldom at present,) that I shall use those very costly things; so you will pot write at first for a great deal.”
“Very well, ma’am,” said the admiring housekeeper, and closed the door behind her, leaving the young lady greatly in a humour to meditate upon the advantages of joining the manor of Temple to the acres of Thorpe-Combe.
CHAPTER XVIII.
From the drawing-room Mrs. Barnes retired to her own parlour, and before she set about any of the important business confided to her, she thought it not a sin to indulge in a little confidential conversation with her niece Nancy.
“I have done a deal of business and listened to a deal of talk since we parted at breakfast, girl,” she began; “but whether I shall be able to hold by what I have promised, or whether you will be willing to thank me for the preferment I have got for you, I don’t feel quite so sure as I did an hour or two agone.”
“What preferment, aunt?” inquired the girl, eagerly. “She is not going to send away the lady’s-maid, is she?”
“No, Nancy, no, that’s not it. As the business now is between us, I stands engaged to continue housekeeper at Thorpe-Combe, till such time as she comes to be of age; and you are to bide here the while, as upper house-maid, and to wait upon any staying ladies that mayn’t happen to have their own maids; and when I go, you are to step into my shoes as housekeeper, I, of course, agreeing to put you in the way of knowing what’s what in that capacity.”
“My goodness, aunt! I don’t ask for nothing better,” replied the young woman, with every appearance of being greatly delighted. “That’s no bad morning’s work, at any rate; and I can’t See for the life of me, why you ain’t contented with it.”
“I dare say you can’t; and I don’t know how you should. And for anything I can tell, Nancy, you may take the place, and keep it, till you better yourself with a husband. You haven’t been spoilt like me, girl, by living with real gentlefolks, years enough to teach me what the difference is between serving a true gentleman, like my old master, and doing the wil
l of a dirty little, selfish, set-up mushroom, like this. God forgive me, Nancy! but I know I shall hate her like poison... There’s enough to do, I can tell you, and I can’t stay here, just at this minute, going through the whole history — and saying all she said and looking all she looked. — What on earth could my poor old master see in her to make him fancy her before them sweet, pretty, young creatures, the two Heathcotes. ’Tis unaccountable!” said Mrs. Barnes.
“It is not that unaccountable, neither, aunt,” replied Nancy, smiling. “The old gentleman was taken by her looking so like his son.”
“She is not like his son, Nancy, no more than she’s like you; excepting the way she took to of curling up her stiff hair and putting the collar round her neck; and all that, I take it, master taught her himself, out of the picture, for it was plain to see it was that picture as was her looking-glass.”
“Very likely,” said Nancy, not choosing to inform her very punctilious relative that she had taken the liberty of leading the young lady into her uncle’s bed-room. “But at any rate, she certainly did look like the picture.”
“But she couldn’t, for the life of her, look like him, though,” said the old woman; “for, with all his faults, and Heaven knows he had enough and to spare, — but with all his faults, he was kind-hearted and generous. Wilful, God knows! and more unable to bear reproof than a raw post-horse to bear the whip; but he hadn’t her cunning, covetous look, anyhow. Mad as he made us, one and all, by plaguing our good master as he did, there wasn’t one in the house that wouldn’t have fled for him or bled for him. But, Lord love you! Nancy, when you come to know this old young woman a little better, you’ll see whether she’s like such a offhand, harem-skarem as Mr. Cornelius. Catch her at getting into a scrape for the sake of a frolic! or fancy him packing up his relations in a garret, just because they warn’t so rich and well to do as himself! I will tell you what, Nancy Barnes, if I was as young as you, and had got my way to make in the world, as you have, I won’t say but what I think I should take her place, and keep it all the easier, perhaps, for happening to have wit enough to find out what sort of stuff she was made of. But independent, and above the world, as I now am, I’d throw the keys in her face, and be off, rather than demean myself by serving such a grudging, selfish curmudgeon of a girl, if it wasn’t a fancy I’ve taken to them poor Heathcotes. I think that, spite of young madam and all her cleverness, I may make them more comfortable than they would be without me; and I should be able to do it fearlesslike, because, if she found me out, I just snap my fingers at her and wish her good morning.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 303