Being Christmastide, December 1772
Biddy Leigh, her journal
Christmas Pie
Make a standing crust of twenty-four pounds of the finest flour, six pounds butter, half a pound rendered suet and raise in an oval with very thick walls and sturdy bottom. Bone a turkey, a goose, a fowl, a partridge and a pigeon and lay one inside the other along with mace, nutmeg, salt and pepper. Then have a hare ready stewed in joints along with its gravy, woodcocks, more game and whatsoever wild birds you can get. Lay them as close as you can and put at least four pounds of butter in the pie. Make your lid pretty thick and lay on such Christmas shapes as you wish upon it. Rub it all over with yolks of egg and bind it round with paper. It will take four hours baking in a bread oven. When it comes out melt two pounds of butter in the gravy that came from the hare and pour it hot in the pie through the hole.
Lady Maria Grice, from a most Ancient Receipt given to her by her Grandmama, 1742
My heart sang to leave the city; the horses bowled at a trot all along the smooth turnpike road out of London. As for my lady’s brother Kitt, what would Her Ladyship make of his chasing me? He was a mighty fine fellow in his spangled waistcoat and cambric ruffles. The very scent of the high-life clung to his honeyed voice and city pallor. Not that I’d forgotten Jem at all, it was just that I was riled at there being no news from him in any letters in London. And Kitt Tyrone was the very first man of rank to ever take notice of me. Each time I glanced at my mistress’s face I saw his lordly features outlined there.
‘What on earth are you staring at, girl?’ my mistress snapped, breaking into a daydream that might have been written by saucy Eliza Heywood herself.
‘Nowt, Me Lady.’
‘Indeed. When you address me, Biddy, you must say “My Lady” correctly.’
I did my best to shape my lips, though they felt like a stiff bladder stretching around a preserve jar.
‘Moi Lady.’
‘Are you sure you can read?’
‘Yes, a’ course I can,’ I said, lifting my chin up. Then I remembered and grumbled, ‘Me Lady.’
‘Humph. A liar too,’ muttered Jesmire.
My lady rifled about the carriage seat, then suddenly thrust a paper in my hand. ‘Go ahead then. Read it.’
‘A hat, a coat, a shoe,’ I pronounced carefully, ‘deemed fit to be worn only by a great grand-sire, is no sooner put on by a dictator of fashions—’ I looked up and the mistress urged me on with a flap of her long white fingers ‘—than it is generally adopted from the first lord of the Treasury to the apprentice in Houndsditch.’
They didn’t laugh at that, for it was right well done. My mistress snatched the paper back.
‘So why did you read that so nicely? It was quite comprehensible.’
I had to think about that. I didn’t want to witter on about how Widow Trotter helped me mimic her own fine speaking voice. I was a natural, she used to say.
‘They are not me own words, Me Lady. When I read something from a paper I can say it like a schoolmistress, all prim and proper.’
Lady Carinna leaned back, a pucker showing between her eyebrows.
‘So if I wrote down your speech like the lines of a play you could recite them correctly?’
‘I should expect so, Me Lady.’
And so an hour passed in a sort of game, where lines were written out for me on the back of an old almanac and I made them sound all proper. It weren’t too bad a scheme, neither, for I surprised them both with my quickness. As the light failed outside, I announced in a perfect London drawl, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen. Dinner will be served in the drawing room.’
Jesmire was mighty peeved to hear me read so marvellous well. Then the notion hit me – Jesmire believed my mistress was schooling me to take her place. As if I would ever give up the glories of the kitchen for a life of needles and hairpins! So all the while, as the old trot muttered into the pages of her London gazette, I crowed that my mistress was right pleased with all I ever did. I never stopped to wonder if I’d be safer keeping well out of her way.
* * *
Next thing, we all caught killing colds, so henceforth we wheezed and dripped our way to Dover. You would have thought my lady was dying from the way she complained of the potholes that jolted the carriage and the sick headaches she endured. Mr Pars was in a temper too, cursing the landlords who imposed tremendous charges on those who could take no other way to the ports. Just outside Dover we stopped at an inn and I snatched a taste of dainty fried fish named smelts, and some herrings served with their tails in their mouths. Afterwards, me and Mr Loveday went out to take a view of the ocean. The wind was blowing so strong it whistled through my teeth and the sea was horrible; a vast plain of water ceaselessly moiling like a simmering pot. At last my head cold had cleared enough to taste the sea on my tongue; it had a strange salted vegetable tang.
We both stared at the murky horizon where there was no sign at all of those famed shores of France. Then Mr Loveday nudged me and pointed to two figures fighting the wind far down at the end of the beach. I squinted, and the shapes of them were very like Mr Pars and my lady – yet that would have been a rum thing, if those two ever took a stroll together. The two of them seemed to be quarrelling like cat and dog, the lady in her flapping cloak raising her arms in a fury. Every few steps the man shook his head and halted to speak words that couldn’t reach us. After a few minutes he stumped off and disappeared. The woman stood alone on the strand, watching the grey waves chase at her skirts. It was too far to be sure, but I would have wagered it was my lady, for her grey cloak was of the same shade, though she wore the hood up to cover her face.
‘If it is them, why would they come out here instead of talking by the parlour fire?’ I asked Mr Loveday as we hurried back to the inn.
My friend pulled his thin coat tight around his elbows, slouching low with his head down. He said something I couldn’t quite hear.
‘What?’
‘—the wind, too hard catch—’
I followed his hunched back and thought no more of it.
* * *
Mr Pars’ intention was to find an inn at Dover and from there buy passage on the packet boat to France. But every inn we called on was bursting with travellers, all holed up till the wind would change and the boats could sail. To make matters worse, we were now but two days from Christmas. I got to see the confectioners’ shops, and all the iced glories of Twelfth Cakes and sugared fruits in every square of windowpane.
On each return from his enquiries Mr Pars wore a hangdog face and shook his head. At the York Hotel we took our supper not knowing where we might bed down. It was a noisy, ramshackle place, and the gale whistled through the shutters in an endless moan. Our party was upstairs in the parlour, while me and Loveday drank rotgut beer in a room below. I was sick of traipsing the earth and longed for the old Mawton range and a dish of tea with my toes up on the fender.
It was old Pars who saved us, for he made the acquaintance of a Mr Harbird, a gentleman of Dover who offered my lady lodgings at his own house until the boats should leave. So at nearly midnight we followed Mr Harbird’s groom up a pitchy lane, all yawning loudly and blessing the gentleman for his Christmas spirit.
* * *
The next day we all woke up at Waldershore House, a large, grey stone manor with gabled roofs and barley twist chimneypots. There was none of the new-fangled whitework there, only oak linenfold panels and faded rugs hung on the walls against the cold. Mr Loveday told me Lady Carinna didn’t care for such an old ruin as she called it, but I thought it a spanking improvement on those tumbledown inns.
Then, to my delight, Mr Harbird said I should help out with the Christmas cooking, for they were short of skilled hands. Fifty persons were invited – the largest company I had ever cooked for. Try to stop me, I swore. Oh, if Mrs Garland had only been with me, we should both have been as merry as a pair of larks.
* * *
The kitchen at Waldershore had a fireplace tall enough to walk inside, and before it three great turnspits that sprung down from the walls. It was crowded with a rag-taggle band of a dozen women and children – some ancient crones, and others young minxes who giggled and pulled daft faces. My knees shook under my skirts as I told them who I was, trying to speak plain, for my northern speech confounded them. They welcomed me kindly enough, for they needed skilled hands, the usual housekeeper being away with her sick daughter.
Thankfully, there were amongst them some women well versed in Christmas craft. A silver-haired woman named Nanny Faggeter was their leader. She made Christmas Pies, while others plucked fowls and mixed cakes and puddings. As for the children, they were set to watch fires and wash pots. I spent a joyful morning making the stuffings, fine pastries and doughs. After dinner a pair of young maidens launched into ‘I Saw Three Ships’, and soon the whole company joined in a chorus. I sang and hummed while I worked, all the time calculating baking times and conjuring Christmas fancies from the pages of The Cook’s Jewel. By three o’clock we had ten great boards piled full of goods, and ‘All Bells in Paradise’ ringing in our ears. Five pairs of the strongest arms lifted the first two Christmas Pies from the oven, and I poured melted butter deep in their spouts, praying they might set succulent and firm.
Next we got the Plum Pudding mixed, and all the young ones crowded about the tub to make a wish. When they had finished I grasped the wooden thribble myself and walked the circle, thinking of Jem and Mawton. At least one of my wishes was answered, for soon afterward, Mr Loveday came tapping at the door.
‘You been working hard, Miss Biddy.’ He grinned at the boards of baked goods. ‘You ’spect an army come by?’
I wiped my brow with a rag. ‘Nothing is busier than English ovens at Christmas. It’s the one day a year when everyone must eat their fill.’
Then he handed me a large wooden box that had been waiting at the post house in Dover for days. It was a cheese from Mrs Garland that released all the pungent richness of those sweet Cheshire meadows. There was also a letter that I only opened when alone in my room, reading every word with all attention.
My Dearest Biddy
I do heartily pray this letter finds you safe in Dover and being of good cheer and that the cheese is not knocked about on the road for it should make a good whet for Christmas and Mr Pars will take a slice I am sure of it.
’Tis lonely now since you have gone and I pray you do not take our parting ill for I would always wish to be at peace with you my dear, for we have so long been good friends and you my stout right arm. The rain and cold has been most troubling since you left and my pains none the better, but I must not complain for there are worse than me I be sure out there on those dirty roads. I make ready for a trifling Christmas as our household is so shrunken, but I still make the pudding and cakes even with no promise of great revels as so few young folk remain. Teg is my only helpmate now Sukey is dismissed and she does the least she can without a scolding. As for this Mr John Strutt who has taken over Mr Pars’ duties, we have no liking for him, he is an interfering, changeabout type of fellow who sees ill in all our old ways, that we know are proven best. As for what he says of Mr Pars, this Mr Strutt has no proper gratitude, if you should ask my opinion.
Jem is the same, though I should tell you he has spent your five guineas a hundred time on cakey schemes, so you must promise me to keep it safe and spend it wisely as I know you will. Biddy, I will not tell tales on any but he does still hang at the kitchen door, only now it is Teg that feeds him. Being your friend I say to you as gently as I might that you should not be waiting on him, my dear and that’s my penn’orth said—
Taking food from Teg? He might choke on it if he weren’t poisoned first. I saw her game. Oh Jem, had he not the wit to remember me? Mighty vexed, I read on.
We talk of you and my lady most nights by the fire and the letter you sent me from London was much remarked upon as showing the wickedness of the capital and to my mind that Meeks fellow should be flogged raw. Yet it does warm my heart to hear you have written in the book and such fine receipts too. I did try the posset when I had some liquor and it was most warming and was like to having you in the room here cooking up a fancy as you used to in happier days, in this cold season ’tis a Godsend. Biddy dear, I did forget to ask for a lock of your hair so when next you write I beg you send it. I am mighty troubled to think of you crossing the ocean someday soon and do say many prayers for your safety upon the sea.
Please do give my Christmas greeting to Mr Pars and also if he be with you still, to George and here is hoping you will send a letter with him minding it could not be a more safe and sure method. I have told you all for the present so must ask you to remember
Your Dear & Heartfelt Friend
Martha Garland
It was lucky we were hundreds of miles apart for I would have had that Jem’s giblets on hot coals. Cakey schemes indeed! Not for the first time I thought of that five guinea piece shining in the strongbox and how Mr Pars had stitched us up good and proper.
* * *
How to tell of Christmas Day – for a cook it’s the most fat-lashing, fire-scorching, hurlying burlying day of all the year. Yet the groundwork was done and so we had only the roast beef, fowls, joints of meats, puddings, and desserts still to make. God’s codlings, that kitchen was as hot as the fiery furnace once the three spits started turning. There were the usual mishaps – a girl caught her skirts in the fire, but escaped with nowt but a smoking hole in the cloth once her workmates had beaten the fire out. Worse was a spill of slippery hot fat across the flags, and a couple of folks cracked their knees before it was sanded.
By eleven we were at the sweating climax of our labours; I had the baron of beef just turning nicely and my other eye fixed on the Yule cakes lined up at the oven door.
A tap at my sleeve brought me back from this happy realm of cooking to face Mr Loveday, his face looking mighty worried. ‘Lady Carinna want see you. At once.’
‘Well she can go whistle,’ I said, thumping my knife down. ‘I am up to my eyes. No, I am up to my skull-top, and even that cannot keep in this heap of cooking.’
I glared at him, but there was no getting out of it. I did not even wipe my face or pull off my flour-stiff apron, for she must take me as I was. Breathless, I burst into Her Ladyship’s chamber.
‘Begging your pardon if you please, Me Lady. I have a whole Christmas to be cooked just now.’
She was lying on her bed with her shoes kicked off, staring about herself in a right dream. Jesmire was sat at a little table twiddling away with her sewing.
I tried again, moving up closer and giving her a low bob.
‘I am sorry, Me Lady. All the dinner will burn to nothing.’
‘Oh, shut up.’ She sat up and eyed me. ‘What on earth do you look like? A chimney sweep.’
I tried to rub the soot from my face, but probably made it worse.
‘Please, Me Lady,’ I started.
‘Now Jesmire here is convinced you are too stupid to learn any foreign language – except for that northern lingo you baffle us with.’
The old shrew muttered into her sewing, ‘You are wasting your time.’
‘What d’you say, Jesmire?’
Raising her head she spat out words like little darts. ‘This country hoyden could never speak a foreign language. She hasn’t had the bringing up for it, My Lady.’
‘Well I believe she can.’ Then she stared at me again as I stood with my arms folded, throwing her a scowl. ‘Oh, do stand up properly Biddy. You look like a scarecrow.’
I did lift my shoulders and let my fingers dangle all useless like those ladies do.
‘Now repeat after me. “Bonjour monsieur”.’
‘What’s that then?’
I heard Jesmire scoff, and shot her a look fit to cut her to shreds.
‘It means “Hello Sir”.’
‘Very well. “Bonjaw miss-ewer”.’
‘Yes, but try to speak a little more delicately.’
I ran through the ‘bonswahs’ and the ‘madams’ and ‘madmwasells’ as quick as a squirrel catching nuts. There weren’t that much to it, truly.
‘A complete waste of time,’ said Jesmire, all snappy. She was sewing like she was stabbing pins at whelks, glancing up after every prick with her beaky face. My lady yawned and thought for a moment. ‘We must remember she must go marketing if we don’t want to eat French stuff. Repeat after me, “Petit déjeuner”.’
That was breakfast. ‘And what sort of articles is that then?’
More bloody tittering. As if a body wouldn’t want to know what was to eat?
‘Well, there would be “pan”.’
‘What? I’ve got to eat an iron pan?’
Her lips twitched at that.
‘Spelled p-a-i-n. Bread.’ I could see I’d made her laugh. And it was driving Jesmire wild that I was tickling her. The truth was, me and Carinna were of an age to make free and jest together.
‘What else?’
We went through ‘caffay’ and ‘tay’ and ‘burr’ and all that. If I hadn’t had a Christmas dinner about to burn to cinders it would have been quite interesting. Thankfully my mistress started to fidget.
‘That’s enough, girl. I’ve proved my point.’ She smirked unpleasantly at Jesmire.
‘A prating parrot. That’s what she is. I doubt she can remember any of it now.’
I was halfway to the door when my lady waved me away in dismissal. But I couldn’t resist a little snap at Jesmire as I opened the door to leave.
‘Arevwah madams,’ I said, pulling a saucy grin as I curtseyed. My lady laughed out loud. But Jesmire crowed after me, ‘I’m mademoiselle to you, you monkey mimic!’
* * *
By Christmas dinner time, I had the boar’s head steaming on a plate and it had roasted a treat. All morning a stream of folk had passed the kitchen window: young families with babes swaddled up like bundles, and naughty boys who rapped at the window and drew saucy shapes in their hazy breath. Sick folk, old folk, all were lifted from carts or hefted up the lane on the backs of strong sons and grandsons. The whole roaring crowd was gathered in the long room to give my boar’s head fulsome applause when it was carried aloft on a platter. And my goodness, those old folk’s eyes were as round as marbles when they saw the tables piled as high as Balthazar’s Feast. Plum pottage, minced pies, roast beef, turkey with sage and red wine sauce – and that were just the first course. I was mostly pleased with the second course, for alongside the tongues, brawn, collared eels, ducks and mutton I’d put some pretty snowballs made of apples iced in white sugar, all taken from a dish in Lady Maria’s hand in The Cook’s Jewel.
Afterwards, the benches were pushed back to the walls and the musicians called in from their ale-bibbing. There was dancing, and such a swinging and bumping and banging that you had to laugh as you tried to save your toes from great thundering boys’ boots.
I was taking a rest with a bumper of brandy when another servant prodded me on the shoulder.
‘What is it now?’ I yawned. I was sick to death of sorting things out.
He told me a message had just come from the Packet Company. The wind had changed and we sailed at four o’clock. Soon enough I had my bundle tied and was taking leave of my quarters. Bless the man, Mr Harbird called me to him before I left and gave me a Christmas Box with a whole two guineas inside. Why, it were more than my own mistress, for both she and Mr Pars had not even given me a farthing, the tight-fists. I swore not to tell Jem about my two guineas neither, for that lummocks had never risen at cock-crow to slave over the fire like I had. Jem Burdett could go to the devil. The others must clean up the soot-smeared, grease-spattered kitchen. I was setting sail for France, the truest paradise for cooks.