Because of being introduced and then invited into the cottage, it was a moment or two before Harriet absorbed Mrs Tuke’s remark. What did she mean? Had Mrs Marshall said Fletcher’s name? She tried to recall the exact words, but they evaded her.
The cottage had low wooden beams and a beaten earth floor. A bench stood near the fire, which was set in a shiny black grate on a stone hearth and had a steaming kettle on a long chain hanging over it. A jug of winter greenery sat in the middle of a wooden table, and a curtain was drawn discreetly across a corner of the room. Harriet assumed it was hiding a bed.
‘So how are you, Ellen?’ Mrs Marshall said.
‘I’m well, thank you, Mrs Marshall.’ Mrs Tuke lifted the cloth covering the contents of her basket. ‘I’ve brought you a dozen eggs. Hens are not laying many just now.’
‘Ah, they’ll be going into ’pot afore long, then,’ was her friend’s reply, and Harriet shuddered.
Mrs Tuke dug deeper in the basket and brought out a plucked chicken wrapped in waxed paper. ‘Indeed they will, and I’ve brought you ’first one. It should be all right until Christmas if you keep it cool.’ Then she produced a jar of thick cream, with the top firmly secured.
‘Oh, you’re too good to me,’ Mrs Marshall said. ‘I’ll put it in ’meat safe outside ’kitchen window. You’re not depriving yourself now, are you?’
‘No, I’ve got another hanging in ’shed which I’ll pluck in ’morning ready for Christmas Day.’
As they chatted, Harriet realized she was seeing another side to Ellen Tuke: not the dour woman she normally was, but one who could relax and talk in the company of an old friend. Mrs Marshall pulled the chain holding the kettle further down to the fire, and whilst waiting for it to boil brought out a loaf of bread, some cold ham, a jar of horseradish sauce and an apple pie and placed them on the table.
‘These are my own apples,’ she said. ‘That’s such a good tree. I’ve got plenty in store if you’d like to tek some, and plums too from ’back garden.’ She turned to Harriet. ‘I don’t bake so much now as I used to.’
‘Mrs Marshall was ’cook at Hart Holme Manor,’ Ellen Tuke explained. ‘That’s how we met, when I was in service.’
‘You were in service?’ Harriet said. ‘Was that at ’house you were telling me about?’
Ellen Tuke nodded. ‘Same,’ she said, turning her gaze away. ‘Until I married Mr Tuke.’
‘And how is Mr Tuke?’ Mrs Marshall asked. ‘I’ve not seen him in many a year.’
‘Much ’same as always, Mrs Marshall, thank you for asking.’ Ellen’s face was expressionless. ‘He doesn’t change much; not for ’better, at any rate.’
‘No,’ the older woman said. ‘I don’t suppose he does. I seem to recall saying as much the day you said you were going to marry him.’ She pressed her lips hard together as she poured boiling water into the teapot. ‘Ellen, I says, that’s a man that won’t change, no matter what.’
‘I seem to recall you saying a few other things as well.’ Mrs Tuke gave a thin smile. ‘And not very complimentary, but there, I—’
‘Made your bed and now must lie on it,’ Mrs Marshall finished and Mrs Tuke nodded and looked wistful.
They’ve had this conversation before, Harriet mused as she drank her tea and accepted a slice of ham, a chunk of bread and a spoonful of horseradish sauce, which was hotter than she had ever tasted and brought her out in a sweat. I expect they have ’same discussion on every visit. They must constantly hark back to the old days.
After they had eaten and talked some more, Mrs Marshall put on a pair of rubber boots and took them on a walk by the Haven. A pale sun was partially obscured behind ragged white and grey clouds, throwing moving shadows on the water.
‘We’ll have snow afore ’week’s out,’ Mrs Marshall said. ‘Mark my words if we don’t. I can feel it in my bones.’
‘Do you live alone, Mrs Marshall?’ Harriet asked. ‘It seems a solitary sort of place.’
‘Aye, I do, m’dear, but I’m never lonely. Every day there’s summat different to look at, a fresh sunrise and sunset every day of ’week, and I defy anybody to say there’s a better one anywhere in ’world. A whole rainbow of colours displayed for me every morning and night. Purple, rose, gold and all colours in between. A whole palette o’ jewels. And then fishermen come by most days and sometimes they bring me some of their catch and I cook it over ’fire and we share it. And mebbe they’ll bring me a sack o’ flour or a bag o’ corn that they’re delivering from down ’river or from ’south bank . . . that’s Lincolnshire, you know. After Hart Holme Manor, this is ’best place in ’world,’ she repeated, ‘that anybody could have ’good fortune to live in.’
Harriet smiled. There was no wonder that Mrs Tuke liked to visit. Mrs Marshall positively exuded good cheer and well-being.
They walked a little way with her and then Mrs Tuke said they ought to be getting back as she wanted to be home before dark. A chill wind had got up, lashing the waters of the Haven into frothy crests.
‘You do right, m’dear,’ her friend agreed as they turned back to the cottage. ‘Darkness soon creeps in at this time of ’year, but afore you go I must give you some of my chutney and preserves. There’s a nice batch o’ quince jelly and a jar of bramble jam, and for ’fine men in your family a bottle of elderberry wine.’
Harriet looked on in amazement as the eggs, cream and chicken were exchanged for preserves and chutney, apples and plums and a bottle of dark red wine. She had never seen so much food, but realized that it was all home-made, gathered from the earth with effort and satisfaction.
I didn’t know, she thought as they climbed back into the cart, I hadn’t realized what country folk did. I never guessed that they wouldn’t have any shops where they could buy groceries and that they’d have to fall back on their own resources. And that’s how they survive.
She said as much to Mrs Tuke as they turned about and headed back to the road, with Mrs Marshall waving them off until they turned a bend and were out of sight.
‘Ah, but it’s not ’same for everybody,’ she replied. ‘There’s some country folk who can die in a ditch just ’same as folk in town can die in ’gutter. We’re lucky that we’ve got a decent landlord and know how to turn our hand to helping ourselves.’ She gave a little shiver. ‘If poor folks get turned off their land or can’t find work, it’s as bad here as anywhere else, especially in winter. But for others . . . well, tek Mrs Marshall, for instance. Master Hart gave her that cottage for a peppercorn rent, and she’ll stay there for ’rest of her life. That’s his way of payment for good service. She was ’cook for his father afore him.’
‘And what about your farm, Mrs Tuke?’ Harriet asked because she was interested. ‘Does ’same thing apply?’
Mrs Tuke’s face tightened. ‘We have to mek it pay. And lads’ll have to shape up after we’re gone. There’ll be no favours then.’
They travelled on in silence except when Mrs Tuke urged on the slow-moving mare. ‘Come on,’ she said irritably. ‘Let’s be home afore dark or ’rain, whichever comes soonest,’ but the old mare simply pricked her ears, snickered, and plodded on at the same pace.
The clouds grew thicker as the sky darkened, and a few drops of sleet fell, but they were not too far from the farm now. Mrs Tuke pointed with her whip and was about to say something when Harriet heard the rattle of wheels and the drum of hoofbeats and turned to look behind her.
‘A carriage is coming Mrs Tuke. Should we pull in to let it pass?’ It was travelling fast and she didn’t think they could get out of the way in time, but it began to slow, the coachman drawing on the reins of four fine horses, as Mrs Tuke drew over to the side of the road. The coachman lifted his whip in acknowledgement, and as they were overtaken Harriet saw a man inside the carriage looking out.
Mrs Tuke sat for a moment, letting it pass by, but it continued to slow until it drew up alongside a pair of open gates. The carriage door opened and a man in a dark overcoat and top hat jumped out and walked towards them.
‘What’s up?’ Harriet said in trepidation. ‘We were not in his way.’
‘It’s all right,’ Mrs Tuke said quietly. ‘No need to be alarmed.’
The gentleman – Harriet could see that he was no ordinary man by his bearing as much as his dress, and the fact that he was riding in a splendid carriage – walked towards them. Mrs Tuke sat with her hands folded in front of her, the whip lying loosely across her lap. She lifted her chin as the man approached, and although Harriet saw her give a slight smile, she also noticed that her lips were trembling.
The gentleman touched his hat. ‘Well, Ellen,’ he said. ‘I thought it might be you.’ He put out his hand and she lifted hers and they touched fingers. ‘This is remarkable. How are you? I haven’t seen you in such a long time.’
‘I’m well, thank you, sir,’ she said. ‘And yourself?’
He nodded and glanced at Harriet.
‘This is Harriet,’ Ellen said. ‘She’s recently married our second son.’
He touched his hat again. ‘How do you do?’ he said briefly, before turning his attention again to Mrs Tuke. ‘Are you on your way home? The weather is turning for the worse; I’m afraid you might get very wet.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We’ve been visiting Cook – Mrs Marshall,’ she added.
‘I plan to visit her myself tomorrow. Does she need anything special?’ he asked, keeping his eyes on her face.
‘I’ve tekken a fowl for Christmas. Mebbe a sack o’ coal or a bundle o’ wood would be appreciated.’ Ellen Tuke looked down at her hands. ‘She seems happy in her cottage.’
He smiled, and Harriet thought how strikingly handsome he was, his eyes grey-blue, his sideburns streaked with silver. ‘Good,’ he said softly. ‘She deserves to be content after a long and loyal working life.’ He straightened his shoulders. ‘I’ll not detain you; you should be getting home, but it’s very nice to see you again.’
‘And you too, sir,’ she replied, looking back at him. ‘I trust your wife is well?’
He smiled. ‘She is. You knew I’d married again?’
‘Yes, sir, I did. Four or five years now, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. It had been a lonely life for my daughter since her mother died.’
‘I was sorry to hear of it. She was well thought of,’ Mrs Tuke added, and Harriet saw his eyebrows lift.
‘She was,’ he answered briefly, before tipping his hat once more and bidding them goodbye. He walked back to the carriage and stepped inside; the driver cracked his whip and they turned through the gates and drove away up the long drive.
‘Oh!’ Harriet breathed. ‘What a charming man. Isn’t that unusual in gentry?’
‘I suppose it is.’ Mrs Tuke gathered up the reins and urged Jinny on again. ‘But he allus was, even when he was young. Kind and considerate, too.’
‘So what was his name? Hart, did you say?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Christopher Hart, owner of Hart Holme Manor and much of ’land round here, including ours.’
‘And, you worked for his mother, did you?’
‘For ’family, yes. I was in service there. From being fourteen. I started in ’kitchen and worked my way up to being ’upstairs maid.’ She swallowed and her voice became strained. ‘I left when I was twenty when I married Mr Tuke. He was one of ’horse lads working on ’estate.’
But Harriet was not thinking about Mr Tuke. She was wondering how Christopher Hart could have known Ellen Tuke well enough to remember her all these years later, and why he would stop and greet her. Surely the son of the estate owner wouldn’t have paid any attention to the servants. But Mrs Tuke was still talking.
‘Master Hart – Christopher – was one of Mrs Marshall’s favourites. He was ’only son; he had four sisters, all older than him, so he was spoilt by everybody, including ’servants; when he was home from school he was always in ’kitchen. He didn’t go away to university like his mother wanted him to. He said he wanted to stay at home and learn to run ’estate. So that’s what he did, and – and so that’s why he knows everybody, like Mrs Marshall – and me.’