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THE DAY BEFORE I RETURNED home, M’sieur Hugo’s gardener, Henri, dug a grave for my child, named Arnaud after my lost husband. My heart was heavy as I left La Fallue, knowing I would miss the motherly ministrations of m’dame and Suzanne. They accompanied me on the short walk to my house and stayed with me when baby Arnaud was placed in the ground. M’dame had kindly commissioned a carpenter to fashion a small oak coffin to hold his tiny body and we stood arm in arm while he was laid to rest under a eucalyptus tree at the bottom of the garden. No words were spoken. I said a silent prayer and placed a camellia bud on top of the little box before Henri took a shovel to the small pile of earth and quickly filled in my son’s grave. Clouds scudded across the pale blue sky and a breeze caused me to shudder, pulling my shawl tighter around my body.
‘There now, you’ve been very brave, my dear, and I suggest we go inside and you must have a hot drink. Suzanne will make us some coffee; she has brought some along especially,’ M’dame Drouet said, taking my arm and guiding me towards the back door. ‘If you can provide a list of provisions needed, Suzanne will purchase them from the market for you as she is also going on my behalf.’
I thanked her, grateful that I wouldn’t have to face the enquiring, and perhaps pitying, looks of others quite yet. We settled in the kitchen where Suzanne had already fired up the range, which offered some warmth after the outside chill. The coffee, thick and strong, seemed to race through my veins, bringing a much-needed energy to my weary body. I gazed around at my neglected kitchen, uncared for since the news of Arnaud’s death. Like the rest of the house. Shame washed over me as I wondered what m’dame would think. She looked up from her cup and smiled.
‘You have a fine house here, my dear, but I can see you may find it difficult to cope on your own at the moment. Suzanne,’ she nodded to her maid, wiping over the range, ‘knows of a local girl from a large family in need of work who wants to leave home and is said to be a hard worker. You wouldn’t need to offer much of a wage beyond her bed and board. Would it suit you to see her?’
I thought quickly. With the little left of our savings and my new income as a copyist, I should be able to support a maid if I lived quietly. As the wife of an officer from a good family, it wasn’t seemly for me to be without domestic help. Why, even my mother had had a maid, though she expected us girls to do our fair share around the house.
‘It would indeed, m’dame, as long as she is a fair cook. My own abilities in that department are a little limited, I confess.’ I glanced across at Suzanne.
‘Oh, Sophie’s a good little cook, she is. Her mother, a friend of mine, has taught her well and she’s eager to practise her skills in her own kitchen, so to speak.’ Suzanne crossed her hands over her own ample stomach and I wondered if she’d sampled the girl’s cooking.
‘In that case, please arrange for her to come around tomorrow at ten and if she’s as suitable as you say, she can start immediately.’ The thought of having someone to take on the housework and also to keep me company was cheering. The house was large, spread over three storeys, and I rattled around it like a single pea in a pod.
‘Excellent!’ M’dame exclaimed. ‘You will be able to spend more time helping m’sieur with his manuscripts, which will please us both.’ She toyed with her cup, looking hesitant. ‘Would you be willing to start later this week? I know you aren’t entirely well, but–’
‘That would suit me, m’dame. I think being busy at such a great undertaking will take my mind away from...unpleasant thoughts. I am eager to repay you both for your kindnesses as soon as possible.’ My hand went involuntarily to my almost flat stomach and I had to stifle a sob. My mother had drummed into me how the best cure for overcoming upsets of any kind was to keep busy at a task which allowed no time for brooding. I was beginning to understand how right she was.
M’dame Drouet stood, brushing down her dress, a dark mauve in keeping with the sad event of the morning.
‘I’ll tell M’sieur Hugo you are happy to start soon and will call around tomorrow. Don’t forget to give Suzanne your list for the market. Goodbye, my dear.’ She gave me a hug and kissed my cheek as she left and I duly sat and wrote my list and gave it to the maid with the appropriate francs. After she’d gone I huddled by the range, suddenly alone and missing the warmth and security of Arnaud’s strong arms around me. His smile. His kisses. The tears flowed unheeded, held in over the past days spent at M’dame Drouet’s. The emptiness and silence of the house to which Arnaud had brought me only a year ago as his wife, was in stark contrast to that day, when he spun me around the parlour, showering me with kisses. We had been full of plans and hopes.
‘Another three or four years and I’ll leave my ship and look for something based ashore. There will always be opportunities for experienced officers to run an import or export company. In fact I was approached only the other day by a wine importer.’ We sat embraced on the chaise, still in our wedding finery.
‘Why did you not take the offer? I can think of nothing better than having you here beside me every day.’
Arnaud curled his fingers in mine.
‘Don’t doubt that I feel the same, my darling. But if I stay in the navy a few more years, I’ll have saved up a goodly sum for our future. Shore jobs are less well-paid and I want you and our children to have the best. It will pass soon enough and then you will complain I am under your feet too much!’ he laughed and I joined in with him, happy my new husband was intent on securing a comfortable future for us. And I would have our children to keep me busy...
The tears finally dried, leaving me exhausted and with an ache in my belly. I forced myself to get up and fill the dying range with wood before splashing my face with cold water. Suzanne wouldn’t be much longer and I didn’t want her reporting to her mistress that I was a tearful wreck. My eyes swept around the room, taking in the large old table in the middle, scrubbed and pock-marked with many years of use. Only the servants would have eaten here, the family ate in the formal dining room upstairs, so Arnaud told me. Shelves held the china while pots and pans hung from the hooks hanging off a large pole above my head. The pantry was off to the side, kept cool with tiles and marble shelves. On my own I had gravitated to the kitchen more than the parlour, glad of its warmth and the comfort of the old chair placed such that one could warm one’s feet by the bottom oven. Old Mrs Sarchet, Arnaud’s mother, had two live-in servants, a maid and a cook, and seldom ventured down to the kitchen, he said. She was a gentlewoman, brought up in a grand house in St Martins and considered to have married beneath her when she became Mrs Sarchet. Arnaud told me it was a love match, and his parents adored one another. His father was a popular doctor who could have been wealthier if he hadn’t spent some of his time attending to the poor of St Peter Port. But he had done well enough to build this house and have his son educated at Elizabeth College. Arnaud was an only child and his father expected him to become a doctor and was disappointed when he refused.
‘I told him I had the greatest respect for medicine, but didn’t consider myself cut out to be a doctor. I had loved the sea since a child and wanted nothing more than to sail on the latest ships that put into St Peter Port harbour.’ Arnaud’s eyes were shining with an inner passion as he told me this on one of our walks early in our courtship. Needless to say, he had headed for the harbour, eagerly pointing out the steam ships newly arrived from England. His own ship sailed out of Southampton and made trips to the Mediterranean ports, loading and unloading a mixture of goods, including olive oil, wine, leather goods, exchanging for British manufactured iron and steel goods.
Although he had been away weeks at a time I survived, only feeling lonely in the evenings. And at night in our big four-poster bed. We bought a new mattress and I enjoyed sewing new bed linen and making a bright patchwork quilt to brighten up what had been a dark bedroom. Sometimes Arnaud brought back mementoes of his travels and the house was dotted with beautiful blue glazed vases, hand-painted Greek pottery, colourful Maltese glass and embroidered linen from Spain. The thought of his lovely gifts propelled me up the stairs to the dining room where they brought splashes of colour to the oak dresser. I found myself stroking each of his gifts, chosen with such love and care. Tears threatened to fall, but I hastily wiped them away with another of his gifts; a fine linen handkerchief from France. Taking a deep breath, I resolved to control my emotions or I would be in no fit state to work for M’sieur Hugo.
Suzanne returned with my provisions, giving me a keen look as I followed her to the kitchen, offering to make me a hot drink. I said I was fine and would rest for a while. With that she left, promising to call in the next day on the way to Market Street to check if I was in need of anything. I took myself upstairs to my bedroom. The dimness of the room suited my mood. Thick, heavy clouds obscured the sun and I drew the curtains even though it was only midday. The room was chill but I had no energy to light a fire and crept under the sheets in my underclothes and closed my eyes, intending to enjoy a short nap.
It was early the next morning when I awoke and the long sleep left me refreshed – and hungry. After washing and dressing I went down to the kitchen, putting more wood in the range, which was close to going out. The loud ticking of the clock was the only sound as I moved around, setting out bread, butter and cheese and heating the water for coffee. I lingered over the meal, drinking more coffee to warm and revive me. There was more than an hour before the girl Sophie would arrive and I planned to test her abilities by setting such tasks as lighting fires in the drawing room and my bedroom and preparing soup from the ingredients bought by Suzanne. My energy was still not what it was and the doctor had warned me it would take time to return to full strength after such a difficult birth and loss of blood.
At ten on the dot a loud knock at the door proclaimed the arrival of Sophie Le Clerc. Her appearance was encouraging. Of average height and build, a round, open face and smiling brown eyes, she was dressed plainly in a green woollen dress and brown cloak. I led the way to the kitchen to begin my interrogation. Sophie shuffled on her chair, twisting her gloved hands, but appeared to relax as I asked the questions.
‘I’m sixteen, m’dame, and I believe I have the right skills to be useful as a maid. My mother taught me how to cook and clean and I’ve often run errands for her in Town. I promise I’ll work hard and you’d find me honest.’
She spoke French with a local accent, but I was used to this after two years on the island.
‘Good. Can you read and write?’
She beamed.
‘Oh, yes. I attended the local parish school and was praised for my letters and sums.’
After verifying for myself that the girl could indeed complete these tasks satisfactorily, I set her to making the soup, and took a taste, which was delicious. I then offered her the position of general maid and cook and she happily accepted my terms. Then I showed her around the house, explaining what would need doing in each room and then took her up to the attic and the servants’ quarters. To my eye the rooms were poky and poorly furnished but Sophie declared herself content.
‘It will be wonderful to have my own room, m’dame. At home I have to share with my two younger sisters and they’re a right nuisance, I can tell you.’ She sighed deeply.
For the first time in a while I found myself smiling.
‘I sympathise as I had to share with my sisters, also.’ I sensed that in Sophie I had found a girl I could relate to and would be a friend as well as my maid. ‘Please feel free to bring what you wish from your home to make it more amenable to you. Come, let’s go downstairs, it’s chilly up here. There’s coal for the fires stored outside. I’ll show you.’
After showing Sophie the garden and coal-store we agreed she would start the following day. Her father, a farmer in St Martins, would bring her into Town in his cart with what belongings she needed. After Sophie left, offering a cheery wave, I headed back to the kitchen which would be my domain for only a little longer. As I poured Sophie’s soup into a bowl, my heart felt lighter. Not only was I soon to begin working for such a person as M’sieur Hugo, but I would have a companion and helper at home. My life, so bleak only days before, was surely set to improve.