The Maid's Secret (2 page)

Mr Hart was rarely seen; he was always busy on the estate or out shooting or fishing with his friends. It seemed to Ellen from what she was told that Mr Hart didn’t know any of the staff that serviced his home apart from his valet, Fowler, who helped him dress, and the butler, Mr Stephens, who took care of his wine and was in overall charge of the rest of the servants.

‘Don’t ever attempt to speak to either ’mistress or ’master,’ Mrs Marshall warned her. ‘Unless you’re spoken to, which you won’t be, and if by chance you should meet them anywhere in ’house, stand still and keep your head down and your eyes lowered.’

Ellen was intrigued. Her opportunity to take a covert look at these remote people came when it was announced that the youngest daughter was to be married and a reception would be held at the manor after the wedding; Ellen, with the rest of the staff and servants on loan from other houses, would serve food and drink in the front garden, where a marquee was to be erected. She was given a new uniform of a white apron and a white cap and a black dress rather than a grey one.

‘I’m so excited,’ she confided to Flo, who was above her in the kitchen hierarchy. ‘Aren’t you?’

Flo shrugged. ‘We shan’t be able to talk to ’em,’ she pointed out. ‘Don’t imagine that we can; it’ll be
yes ma’am
,
no ma’am
, and we might get our bottoms pinched by some of ’men and have to pretend that we haven’t noticed. It’s not going to be that much fun, so don’t expect it is.’

Nevertheless, Ellen wasn’t going to be put off by a few sour comments from Flo, who, she thought, was so plain that she ought to take it as a compliment if someone put their hand on her skirt. But I shall watch out for that, she thought, and try to avoid it; I’m rather particular about who I’d allow to take advantage. At fourteen she thought she was learning the ways of men already, having been given the eye, a wink and a nod from the footmen, the stable lads, the boot boy and some of the other men working on the estate, all of which she disdained to acknowledge.

Nathaniel Tuke, one of the horse lads, often stopped her as she was crossing the yard on her way to the laundry, and always greeted her with a sly grin that looked more like a leer. He suggested that they meet somewhere for a talk, and when she pertly asked what would they talk about he told her that they would think of something; she responded by simply turning away.

Two days before the wedding they heard below stairs that young Master Hart had arrived home. Mrs Marshall had been preparing the wedding breakfast for weeks, cooking and salting hams and hanging venison, and was to be assisted in the final countdown by a French chef who, much to her displeasure, had been brought in to bake French pastries,
éclairs
and
tartes
, even bringing his own flour with him to make
croissants
.

She’d huffed and puffed, grumbling that there was ‘nowt wrong with her bread’, but Mrs Hart had insisted: her daughter was marrying into a noble family and must therefore be nobly catered for.

‘I’ll still find time to bake Master Christopher a cake that I know he’ll enjoy, never mind this fancy French cooking,’ she’d declared, but as she was so busy Ellen asked if she could make it. To her astonishment Mrs Marshall agreed, so long as Ellen followed her instructions to the letter.

The cake rose and rose and was so light and airy that Mrs Marshall couldn’t have been more pleased if she had made it herself. ‘Why, one day, Ellen, you might mek a cook yourself.’

Ellen smiled, but had other thoughts. Being a cook in someone else’s household wasn’t something she aspired to.

There was a soft knock on the kitchen door as the servants were sitting down for a cup of tea. They all stood up as a tall fair-haired youth of about fifteen came in and apologized for disturbing them, but Mrs Marshall said, ‘Come in, come in. Allus nice to see you, Master Christopher. Ellen, fetch that cake tin out of ’cupboard.’

‘Might I join you for a cup of tea?’ he asked. ‘My parents are greeting some guests who are staying for the wedding.’

‘What? Staying ’night do you mean, sir?’ At Christopher’s nod, Cook said, ‘Be quick and finish your tea, Flo, and scrub some more taties and carrots. We don’t want to run out. Why wasn’t I told?’

‘I don’t know,’ the boy admitted. ‘Plans have gone awry.’ He smiled at Ellen as she brought out the cake. ‘Hello.’

‘This is Ellen,’ Cook said. ‘She’s new since you were last at home.’

She dipped her knee and he nodded; shyly, she thought, although he seemed to be at ease with Cook and Flo. It’s cos he’s used to them, I expect. She was pleased when he said the cake was delicious and Cook told him she’d made it. She saw Flo’s expression change to that of a sour prune; she’s jealous, Ellen thought, feeling triumphant.

The day of the wedding was cloudless and sunny and Ellen was pleased to be out of the heat of the kitchen serving glasses of champagne or trays of
hors d’oeuvres
to the guests who milled about on the lawn before going into the marquee for the wedding breakfast. It was thrilling to see the bride, her attendants and Mrs Hart in their beautiful gowns of silks and fine muslins in varying shades of ivory and cream, with nipped-in waists and puffed long sleeves narrowing at the wrist; the bride wore flowers in her hair and the young attendants wore undergowns of rose and pale blue, and as they flitted about on the lawn Ellen was put in mind of colourful butterflies and gave a small wishful sigh.

Christopher Hart came across to her and took a glass of champagne from her tray. ‘I’m not really supposed to drink,’ he confessed. ‘So don’t tell on me, will you?’

‘Oh, no, of course I won’t, sir.’ She gave him a dimpled smile and thought how handsome he looked in his grey tailcoat and black trousers and carrying a top hat. ‘It’ll be our secret.’

His eyebrows rose at that and she thought he seemed amused. He didn’t seem to be offended by her flippancy and she wondered if he was ever tired of being cautious or prudent when speaking to servants and being answered in a submissive manner. He was still only a boy, after all.

He went back to school after the wedding and wouldn’t return home until the summer holidays, and for most of that time he was occupied with his parents. Mrs Marshall told her that after going to university he was destined to run the estate with his father.

‘Nice to have your future mapped out for you,’ Flo niggled. ‘No worries about finding a job.’

‘But what if he’d like to do something else?’ Ellen said. ‘Does he have a choice?’

Mrs Marshall scratched her head. ‘No, I don’t suppose he does.’

Much to Flo’s annoyance Mrs Whitton had been impressed by Ellen’s manner towards the wedding guests, and she was promoted to upstairs maid on Mrs Marshall’s recommendation. She was given two new uniforms, one for morning and one for the afternoon. Flo grumbled that she had been there for much longer than Ellen and was still stuck in the kitchen.

‘Well, much as I don’t want to lose her,’ Cook answered briskly, ‘she’s got potential to improve herself. I can’t say ’same for you, my girl, so get on with what you’re doing and be quick about it.’

Ellen was moved to a room in the attic. It was colder than the kitchen and she shared with two of the other maids; Mrs Marshall took on another kitchen maid to help Flo, which meant that Flo had someone working beneath her again.

The work upstairs meant getting up very early to clean out the fire grates before the family came down, sweeping, dusting and changing the bed linen, and it also meant that when Christopher came home in the holidays Ellen rarely saw him, only occasionally coming across him whilst carrying out upstairs duties. It was about a year later, on a day when she had gone outside to take a breath of air, that he crossed the yard on his way to the stable block and saw her.

‘Hello,’ he greeted her. ‘I haven’t seen you for a while.’

‘I’m still here,’ she said, and then added, daringly, ‘but you do know that we’re supposed to be invisible?’

He looked taken aback and she thought that her tongue might have got the better of her. She looked down and meekly murmured, ‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Is that what you’re told? To be invisible?’ His voice was low, as if he didn’t want to be overheard.

She nodded. ‘Yes. That’s what I was told when I first came to work here.’

‘How ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Those are not my views.’ He looked at her steadily for a moment and then asked, ‘Would you like to come and look at my new horse? It’s a birthday present.’

‘Oh, is it your birthday, sir?’ She sometimes missed out on the kitchen gossip. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘Next week. I’ll be sixteen. I hope Cook is making me a cake?’

‘I’m sure she will be.’ And in her head she began to plan and scheme of a way to persuade Cook to let her make a cake for Master Christopher.

He led the way to the stable block, where a light-coloured bay was looking out of the open top of a loose box door. Christopher told Ellen he was calling her Sorrel because of her colour. ‘I wanted a stallion, but Father said not yet. I can have one when I reach eighteen.’

Gingerly Ellen stroked the mare’s long nose and said she was a fine animal, although in truth she wasn’t very fond of horses. Nathaniel Tuke was replenishing the straw bedding in the other boxes and his eyes widened when he saw Ellen accompanying Master Christopher, but then his expression changed to an exaggerated subservience as he bent his head and touched his cap.

Christopher cleared his throat, and Ellen wondered if he had realized that by bringing her to the stables he had crossed the line between servant and master. He’s embarrassed by ’division between us, she thought. It isn’t something he’s happy about.

‘I’ve, erm, brought Ellen to see my latest acquisition,’ he said to Tuke, adding, ‘What do you think? Isn’t she a beauty?’

Tuke glanced at Ellen from beneath his cap. ‘Certainly is, sir, best mount I’ve seen in a long time.’ He slid back the bolt and opened the stall door to let Ellen see the animal. ‘Treat her right and she’ll serve you well.’

‘I’m sorry, I must go,’ Ellen said hurriedly. ‘They’ll be wondering where I am. Thank you for showing her to me, Master Christopher,’ she said, for Tuke’s benefit. ‘It was very kind of you.’

Behind Christopher’s shoulder she saw Tuke smirk. He gave her a wink and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ Christopher said. ‘I wanted to show her off. Saddle her up, will you, Tuke, and I’ll take her out.’

Tuke tipped his cap again. ‘My pleasure, sir,’ he said. ‘I reckon she’ll ride well.’

Ellen hurried back to the house. Her cheeks were flushed with anger. She’d understood Tuke’s snide remarks even if Christopher hadn’t. He’s been sheltered, she thought. Don’t young men of his class banter about females in ’way such as Tuke do? Surely at school? Maybe they do, but in a different manner and not in front of women.

Mrs Marshall beckoned to her to hurry when she went back into the kitchen. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she admonished. ‘Mrs Whitton has been looking for you. Mistress is expecting visitors this morning and you need to set a tray of tea and biscuits for ’em. Get a clean tray cloth and use ’best but one silverware and ’second best china. Come on. They’ll be here any minute.’

‘Yes, Cook, sorry. I was held up. I’ll explain later,’ she murmured, not wanting Flo to hear where she stood by the range stirring soup. ‘And I need to ask you something.’

When they were alone, she said, ‘Master Christopher asked me to look at his new mare. I could hardly refuse, could I?’ she added, as if she hadn’t really wanted to go. ‘Especially as he said it was a birthday present. I thought that he must be quite lonely, having to ask a servant to share his pleasure. And what I thought, Mrs Marshall, was that wouldn’t it be nice if I made him something for his birthday, which is next week, by the way, and ’onny thing I could think of was that I could mebbe mek him a cake, you know, like I did before.’

Mrs Marshall gazed at her and said sharply, ‘Yes, I know it’s next week. I allus mek him a cake, have done since he was a two-year-old.’ She thought for a moment, then said, ‘But aye, you could do. One for him to eat down here wi’ us, and I’ll mek him another for upstairs that he can share wi’ his parents. But don’t go thinking he’s lonely, for I’m sure he’s not. He’s got plenty of friends from round about and from school, and some of ’em’ll be coming to his party next week.’

She contemplated for a second and then went on, ‘And what you think is loneliness is more likely shyness. He’s a quiet sort o’ young man, allus was, even when he was just a bairn, not one for a lot o’ noise and excitement, but rather retiring and serious. And,’ she added in a precautionary manner, ‘don’t go thinking you can mek a friend of him.’ She shook her head. ‘Cos you can’t.’

Ellen wasn’t convinced. Why? she argued to herself. Why can’t I? She was aware of the huge differences between herself and Mrs Hart, who didn’t even notice her if she passed her in the hall, when, as she had been taught, Ellen stood stock still until she had gone by. If she was serving tea to Mrs Hart or her guests, none saw or spoke to her unless it was to ask for more hot water. She would curtsey and disappear, reappear with the hot water, curtsey again and back out of the room.

But Christopher was different. In the house he didn’t speak to her if his parents were there, but he always smiled to acknowledge her presence, which she found not only comforting but also very agreeable, as if she were special.

During the week of his birthday she agreed with Cook that she would make the cake late one evening when everyone bar Daisy the new kitchen maid had gone to bed, and that Daisy could help her. She bade the girl bring out the mixing bowl, the wooden spoons, the flour, butter, eggs, sugar and chocolate: she was going to make Master Christopher a chocolate cake.

She put on Cook’s large apron, stirred and then beat the flour, sugar and butter, whisked the eggs and melted the chocolate. Daisy greased and lined the cake tin, and the mixture was gently poured in. No matter how many cakes I make in my life, Ellen thought, I can say that this will be the best one ever. She carefully placed it in the oven, and whilst Daisy washed the bowls and utensils she sat down and waited, feeling that she was queen of her domain. This must be how Mrs Marshall feels when she has cooked for upstairs, she thought, knowing that no one could have done it better.