Chaff upon the Wind (4 page)

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 in 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.’

‘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?’

There was surprise in her voice, but then she heard Mrs Franklin laugh softly. ‘Come along, my dear, it’s quite all right.’

Still Kitty hesitated. It was not that she was a timid girl – far from it. ‘Bold as brass and cheeky with it,’ was often Mrs Grundy’s view of her kitchen maid. But Kitty
knew her place within this household, had had it instilled in her by her mother long before she ever came into service and that place was not sitting beside her mistress on the soft cushions of the
window seat in her private sitting room.

Nervously, Kitty perched on the edge of the seat.

‘Why did you not tell me about your mother having served as a lady’s maid? She must have been good because my late mother-in-law . . .’ a smile twitched her mouth, ‘was
not an easy lady to please.’

The woman’s kindness brought a rush of words from Kitty’s lips. ‘I thought you might think I was trying to use that. I thought it wasn’t – well – quite
honest. And besides . . .’ She faltered.

‘And?’ Mrs Franklin prompted.

Kitty felt her cheeks grow warm. ‘I – I’m not sure why me mother left here. I mean . . .’

Mrs Franklin’s hazel eyes were regarding her gently, almost with a look of pity. ‘No, my dear, I don’t suppose you do.’ Softly, she added, ‘I suppose there are many
things children don’t know about their parents’ lives.’

Again there was silence while Kitty waited. Surprisingly, Mrs Franklin said, ‘Tell me about your family, Kitty.’

‘My – my family, madam?’

‘Mm. Your father, for instance. Does he still work on the railway?’

Kitty’s eyes widened. ‘How . . .?’ she began but then, realizing her question might be thought impertinent, she stopped.

‘He worked as my father-in-law’s groom,’ Mrs Franklin was explaining. ‘But he left here – well – about the time he and your mother were married and I
understood that he got a job as a porter.’

‘He’s the stationmaster now, madam. I suppose that’s how me mam and dad met, then? When they both worked here, I mean.’

Mrs Franklin’s gaze dropped away. ‘I suppose so, Kitty. Your mother had gone by – by the time I married Mr Franklin and came to live at the Manor, although your father was
still here then. But yes, I suppose they must have met . . .’ Her voice trailed away and there was a long pause before she said, ‘And you have brothers and sisters?’