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.
‘I’ll save you some, so just slip down when you can,’ Mrs Arden promised with a smile.
At last, I walked slowly back towards my house, the young moon providing just enough light to tempt me to take the short cut through the shrubbery. I was halfway through when I realized I was not alone. A young female spoke, to be cut short by sharp words in masculine tones. There was what sounded like a slap, and a gasp. This was more than a simple tiff. I stepped forward. But I trod on a twig, which cracked loudly.
The ensuing silence was instant and absolute.
I called out, ‘Who’s there?’
Still silence. I frowned; I had no idea who the girl might be, but the man’s voice wasn’t that of a yokel. Was I foolish to believe the accent was one from a public school like my own? There were instances where a young man with that background had serious feelings, honourable intentions, towards a servant girl. But there were far more, in my experience, of a man simply toying with the other’s emotions, with nothing but his own pleasure in mind. It was not the job of a steward to make enquiries, of course. Were Mr Pounceman a man of sympathetic understanding, I could approach him. But Mr Pounceman was not my grandfather, who despite his loving and steadfast union with Grandmama, had once as a very young man truly loved a chambermaid.
Much as I hated the idea, surely I must confront the couple? No, I would feel soiled by the act.