The Wages of Sin Page 3

  I noticed something else. ‘Will the baby need tops and whips?’ I asked quizzically, but genuinely confused.

  ‘No, to be sure – but it seems to me that Kenton’s other children may not view the new arrival with unalloyed pleasure, and to have a new toy may distract them. Everyone will coo over the baby, but few will talk to the children.’

  ‘Do I gather,’ I asked with a smile, ‘that that will be my role?’

  ‘If you are prepared to take it on, Mr Rowsley. Now,’ she added, adjusting her shawl, ‘since both baskets are heavy, shall we deliver them before you show me the alterations to the grounds?’

  ‘An excellent plan, Mrs Faulkner. Now, in view of what you said about toys, might my gifts include bats and balls?’

  She beamed. ‘They might indeed!’

  Half an hour later, having distributed the gifts and promised more, we set out again, approaching the lake. It was so pleasant in the sun that I had forgotten the shouting incident I had overheard earlier. Introducing the topic out of the blue might give it more importance than it merited, and might also reduce me to the status of a common gossip. I realized that I must bide my time.

  ‘Where do you put all the waste?’ Mrs Faulkner asked, pointing at a cart being loaded with the dripping, stinking sludge from the bottom of the lake.

  ‘It will be added to compost heaps all round the estate. Some people like to apply it direct to the soil – in fields, for example, where the odour will not offend.’

  ‘Unless you live near them, of course.’

  ‘Indeed! However, I was taught that it is advisable to mix it with other rotting matter, such as dead leaves and even the waste from the kitchens, so that is now the practice I observe. The sludge will stay in the heaps for months, in some cases years – at least until everything smells sweet and, if you run it through your hands, you find it light and friable. If you can tell what it once comprised, it is too soon to use it.’

  ‘You will need a lot of compost heaps!’

  ‘We have them. At present many are just piles of dead leaves, which take a long time to rot down, so the sludge will be a boon.’

  ‘And there is so much if it!’ She waved away a sudden gust of the foul miasma. ‘So soon his lordship will be able to sail – or at least row – down here.’

  ‘He will have company. The lake must have been sadly neglected for years; the men have found no fish to speak of, so I propose to restock it. With carp.’

  She raised her hands in mock horror. ‘Dear me, I have never found a cook or chef capable of making the wretched fish even barely palatable. Yet they say it used to be a popular dish. Did I not read that monasteries relied on carp ponds?’

  I had never expected the study of history to be part of a housekeeper’s leisure. Yet I rebuked myself immediately. My dear mama was as widely read as most of my masters at Harrow, and, I suspect, far shrewder in her understanding. ‘Perhaps it was part of their determination to make life as harsh and unappealing as possible!’

  ‘A culinary hair-shirt, perhaps?’

  ‘Precisely,’ I agreed with a smile. ‘So if Mrs Arden is in agreement, I think I shall encourage the notion that many fishermen seem to have, that it is wrong to eat carp, so they must immediately be thrown back whence they came.’

  Laughing, we walked on, heading gently towards the former meadow. ‘Of all his lordship’s improvements,’ I said, ‘in the grounds at least, this is the one that gives me most pleasure. My father was a very keen player, like his father before him. Whenever he was unhappy or in doubt, he would oil his cricket bat. I suspect he still keeps it for that purpose even today.’

  ‘And you, Mr Rowsley? Can we look forward to applauding you as you stride out to the wicket?’

  ‘It will be the only applause I get, while I hold a bat. But put a ball in my hand and I would hope to acquit myself better.’

  Her gaze dropped, as if she was looking into the past. At last she smiled. ‘Once, when I was very young, I had to learn to bowl. The eldest son of the house where I was then employed fancied himself a master batsman in the making. One of my duties – I know not how it came about – was to spend hours bowling for him.’

  ‘Indeed! Like the great Christiana Willes!’

  ‘You have heard of her!’ For a moment her face was beautiful with joy. Then it closed again, as she resumed her anecdote. ‘Eyebrows were raised, of course, by both my employers and my fellow servants, until an enthusiastic house guest, who also wanted to practise, asked if I was related to the great Miss Willes, at which point my credit and indeed my wages went up!’ Her smile waxed and swiftly waned. ‘But indeed, Mr Rowsley, I would be grateful if I might ask, in confidence, for your advice on a very delicate matter.’

  ‘In my experience, simply listening to the problem is often better than giving advice,’ I said quietly. I stopped and turned to her.

  ‘I would welcome both. I am anxious about Maggie.’

  ‘The plump little maid?’

  ‘Exactly. I have spoken to Mrs Arden, who is, I think, inclined to think I am worrying unnecessarily. But she has been weeping a lot recently – though she claims she’s suffering from a summer cold; if she is, it has been going on for a long time. I have asked her – because with girls that age, one always fears the worst! – but she insists, “They always puff up my eyes, Mrs Faulkner, ma’am. And put me off my food something shocking”.’

  ‘Yet she appears to be blooming – rosy cheeks, pretty hair. I should imagine half the footmen are in love with her.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said dryly.

  ‘Does she have a particular follower?’ I was reluctant to spell out the problem more clearly, lest I embarrass her.

  ‘There’s young Harry Kenton, who has been sweet on her for months. But it seems to me that she’s cooled towards him, as if someone has told her she could do better. I’ve not seen her exchange so much as a glance with any of the indoor staff, or self-consciously look away from any of them either, which is more significant than a smile, in my book.’

  ‘Who does that leave? One of young Harry’s fellow labourers? Someone she met in church? Surely not: those horrible bonnets her ladyship insists on for all the maids keep them as close as Quakers and mean there’s little possibility of a chance encounter there. A tradesman delivering to the door?’

  ‘No: it’s only Mrs Arden’s kitchen staff who would have a chance to meet and flirt with a butcher’s lad, and when they call young Maggie would be busy making beds and dusting the Family’s rooms.’ She stopped abruptly as one of the workmen marched over.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he began, ‘but it’s the sludge.’

  ‘We will discuss this tomorrow, Partridge,’ I declared curtly.

  ‘But Gaffer—’

  ‘I can see the matter is urgent.’ With a slight curtsy, Mrs Faulkner excused herself and was gone.

  As Partridge spoke, his attention to minutiae as pedantic as any schoolmaster’s, I speculated. If poor Maggie had been betrayed, could it be one of the young gentlemen that his lordship used to bring along, before his father’s illness and death put a stop to that? No: that would be too long ago. And now of course the House was in mourning, with no guests. Should I speak to his lordship? Not without Mrs Faulkner’s express permission. In any case, he was what my old nurse would have called a hey-go-mad young man, throwing his money at any scheme that took his fancy. I could not imagine him to be interested in moral problems. As for her ladyship, it was a brave person who tried to make her speak on any topic she had not chosen.

  II

  I want to cry but I know it is forbidden.

  No one has treated me particularly badly, not today at least. It is my own thwarted desire that draws the tears.

  Every day I have to come into the nursery while the young master is asleep and clean it so well you could eat your dinner off the floor. That’s what Nurse Butler told me. Off the floor and off every chair and table and even off the grate, once I’ve black-leaded it. Only then
can I light the fire. It must burn first time and make no smoke to get in Master Baby’s eyes, Nurse says.

  I don’t mind any of that. Now I’ve got it clean – the last nursery maid wasn’t as particular as Nurse likes, and I can see Nurse’s point – it isn’t hard to keep it clean. And if Master Baby doesn’t wake too early I can look at Miss Susannah’s books. I know those black marks mean something. Each day I make a little more time to try to work out what it is. Not long, though: there is the schoolroom to clean, and the latest governess can neither control the three eldest children nor make them tidy up afterwards, no matter how loudly she shouts. And she is so above herself too, Giving Herself Airs. That’s what Mrs Baird, the housekeeper, was telling Cook. And Foreign. That’s the worst sin. It might be even worse than being an Orphan. I don’t know. But she must know about what is inside those books; if only she would help me.

  I can hear movement. It is time to take the overnight slop-bucket downstairs and to deal with Master Baby’s napkins. And his clothes and sheets. The proper laundry-maid won’t touch them, and I can see why. I can smell why.

  When I’m a grown woman I’ll be able to refuse. I’ll be able to get an underling to do it. I shan’t pinch her and pull her hair to make her, though.

  I wonder what Master Baby will do when he’s a grown man. He’ll be able to read, won’t he? And take his place in the world?

  What place is there for me, if I can’t read?

  THREE

  While the vast majority of the staff ate in the servants’ hall, the upper servants always foregathered at eight thirty for the last meal of the day in Mrs Faulkner’s parlour – the Room, as it was always called, though there were at least a hundred others under the roof. Tonight there were Mr Bowman, Mrs Faulkner, Hargreaves – his lordship’s valet, Mademoiselle Hortense – her ladyship’s personal maid, and Cook – Mrs Arden. They were waited on by Mr Bowman’s servant, Tim. Sometimes I preferred the privacy and plain fair of my own home, a five minutes’ stroll from the House. But since I had had no more than Bessie’s excellent roll since breakfast I decided that I needed more than bread and cheese for supper. I sent Dan, my diminutive outdoor boy, with a note asking for an extra place to be laid, the repast being as formal, in its way, as the one upstairs.

  When I presented myself it was clear that the ultra-smart Hortense was wearing a dress that her mistress had probably given her, much altered, I supposed, to fit the younger woman’s slight figure; Hargreaves’ dress-shirt might well have emerged from his master’s wardrobe. Bowman’s waistcoat was old-fashioned enough to have been his late lordship’s. Without her voluminous apron and huge cap, Mrs Arden was almost unrecognisable in an elegant dark blue woollen dress, the skirt almost as full as Mrs Faulkner’s. In a cap much more decorative than her severe daytime wear, Mrs Faulkner wore heavy maroon watered silk. I had dressed carefully: there was a fine line between being too expensively formal in my own tailored clothes, and disrespectfully casual.

  As usual, I found myself at the head of the table, offering up grace. I followed Papa’s tenet: brevity might not be the soul of wit, but it certainly encouraged reverence amongst would-be diners.

  Today the Family would have dined on consommé, braised guinea fowl and rib of beef; we followed their menu. Technically we received their left-overs, but Mrs Arden, with an expansive wink, confided that she had got into the way of cooking enough for us to have our portions. ‘Otherwise we’ve had suppers with practically nothing,’ she said, once Tim had slipped away to eat what he could in the servants’ hall before he dashed back to serve us the entrée. ‘And the servants’ hall nothing at all except cold meat and a few vegetables. That’s not how I like to do things, with all due respect, Mr Rowsley,’ she added, as if suddenly realizing I, holding the estate’s purse-strings, might have other priorities.

  I hoped my face expressed judicious approval. My mind was trying to suppress the image that sprang unsolicited into my mind, as conjured by Dean Swift:

  So, naturalists observe, a flea

  Has smaller fleas that on him prey;

  And these have smaller still to bite em,

  And so proceed ad infinitum.

  Swift might have been alluding to fellow poets at the time, but for me it conjured the interdependence and rivalries in this establishment.

  It was rare for me to initiate a conversation in the gathering, but tonight I clearly had to. The wine that Mr Bowman had conjured from the Family’s table, or from another source, was excellent – just the quality for the toast I was about to propose.

  ‘Let us raise a glass to the health of Mr and Mrs Kenton’s new baby boy,’ I said, leading the way.

  There was a tiny frisson – of shock? of disapproval? – but everyone joined in, albeit raggedly.

  ‘Indeed it is not inappropriate to celebrate an outdoor worker’s baby,’ Bowman said, with the intention, I suspected, of trying to cover what seemed to be seen as a gaffe, ‘since his father has the reputation of being a good, reliable man.’

  Mrs Arden nodded firmly. ‘Did he not win the prize for the best runner beans at last year’s fete?’

  ‘And the year before that,’ Bowman agreed. ‘He has some notion of digging trenches for them, does he not? I seem to recall he begged some of the wallpaper when it was stripped from the nursery, though I cannot conceive why.’

  I kept my peace. This was not the moment for me to lecture people who lived their entire lives like troglodytes within the house on the finer points of plant nutrition. In any case, at this point Tim scuttled in to clear the soup plates and serve the entrée so that he could return to his own supper. Whatever his hunger pangs might have been, however, he was as decorous and dignified as if he had been an altar boy.

  ‘Our numbers will be greatly swelled,’ Bowman remarked, as Tim left, ‘when her ladyship permits us to receive house guests again.’

  ‘Assuming Lady Adelaide is one of them, do you think his lordship will make her an offer this time?’ Mrs Arden asked.

  ‘Why break the habit of a lifetime?’ Hargreaves responded. ‘I don’t know how many times he’s proposed, but I can’t see her taking him, not ever, if you ask me. Mind you, now he’s got his hands on the title, he might seem a bit more eligible.’

  Mrs Arden looked doubtful. ‘Is she the sort of lady who’d be impressed by such a thing? She comes from a far older family than ours, and they say she’s worth fifteen thousand a year.’

  ‘What about that brother of hers? It’s well known he’s in dun territory and still spending hand over fist. Ten to one her father’ll have to settle his debts and that means Lady Adelaide waving goodbye to her dowry.’

  ‘No. It was settled on her by her grandmother – can’t be touched, no matter what,’ Mademoiselle Hortense declared, her accent veering closer to London than to Paris as it always did when she’d had a glass of wine.

  I floated a question. ‘What does her ladyship think of the possible match, Mademoiselle?’

  ‘Says she’s too flighty and headstrong. Says she’s got a reputation for being fast. But if you ask me,’ Mlle Hortense said, taking another sip from her glass and dropping her voice to conspiratorial level, ‘she’d rather have an altogether different daughter-in-law. Quiet. Shy. Knowing when and when not to make changes,’ she added meaningfully. ‘Preferably when not to.’

  ‘So the old lady won’t have to let go of the reins, eh?’ Hargreaves said with a laugh that Bowman clearly thought was unseemly.

  He coughed. ‘We all know what we think, do we not? But there are some things best not shouted abroad, Hargreaves.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Bowman, Mrs Faulkner. Sorry, Mr Rowsley, Mrs Arden.’ The young man looked chastened indeed.

  I pointed to the ceiling. ‘So long as all our conversations remain what the Tudors called sub rosa.’ It was the wrong observation: at least two of our company clearly did not pick up my allusion.

  Mrs Faulkner responded, smiling round the table. ‘We will need Jackson to paint a rose there next
time he whitewashes the ceiling, will we not? Then whatever we conspirators say can remain beneath it. Now, Mr Bowman, more of this excellent broccoli?’

  ‘Indeed. Then I fear I must adjourn upstairs to serve dessert.’

  Why had such an old-fashioned custom remained here? It was considered passé, except at the very grandest of dinners. Perhaps it was no worse than our expecting poor Tim to interrupt his meal in the hall as he now did to clear the plates and bring us our own dessert – but at least he was learning his trade, whereas Bowman had no need of any more skills. He rose ponderously, treating us to a creaking bow as he reached the door.

  It was noticeable that the atmosphere lightened as he departed.

  ‘What the maids would like to see,’ said Mlle Hortense, allowing her elbows on to the table, ‘his lordship becoming a settled married man and ceasing to invite other unattached young gentlemen here.’

  Mrs Faulkner’s eyes flickered. ‘I believe we all share that hope. Propriety forbids me to mention any of the Family’s friends in public, but pray assure our girls, Mademoiselle and Mrs Arden, that should they ever mention anyone in particular, as soon as I am informed I will find a way of dealing with the situation.’

  I nodded firmly. ‘My mama used to say that a gentleman is as a gentleman does. If any of our own footmen overstep the mark, I am sure Mr Bowman will deal with them. Or anyone else,’ I added. Or was I implying I knew of some badly behaved young gentlemen myself? That shouting this afternoon – but that was certainly not something to reflect on in public.

  A bell rang sharply. Mlle Hortense glanced at the board behind my back, and got to her feet with a sigh, looking longingly at the impressive jelly, so far untouched.