Chaff upon the Wind (3 page)

Kitty caught the glance of the cook who glared at her for a moment and then, with a grunt, turned away. Thwarted in giving vent to her rage, she banged a huge cooking pan on to the range as if
wishing Lucy’s head was beneath it. The smile faded from Kitty’s mouth as she turned back to the weeping maid. She didn’t particularly like the girl in front of her, never had.
She was a whining, sour-faced creature who complained from morning until night about anything and everything. But Kitty had a real affection for Mrs Grundy, whose rough and ready manner hid a soft
heart.

‘Come on, out with it. What did happen?’

Lucy sniffed again. ‘I told you,’ she muttered. ‘She attacked me.’

‘But
why
? We all know Miss Miriam’s got a quick temper, but there’s got to be summat that set it off.’

Lucy sniffed again. ‘How should I know? She’s vicious.’

‘Now don’t you start that again,’ came Mrs Grundy’s warning voice, ‘else . . .’ But as Kitty held up her hand, palm outwards, the older woman subsided, though
she could still be heard muttering darkly to herself.

‘What
happened
?’ Kitty persisted, determined to get at the truth.

‘It was her new riding habit,’ Lucy began reluctantly. ‘You know, the one with the white ruff at the neckline. Well, last time she went out riding she tore the lace. I mended
it but – but I’m not very good at sewing and she said – she said I’d made a pig’s ear of it. Oh she’s got such a mouth on her when she starts. Lady, my eye.
She
’s no lady.’

Now Mrs Grundy turned and came back to the table. ‘No wonder she was mad. A lady’s maid that can’t sew. I never heard the like. What do you expect, girl?’

Lucy stood, drawing herself up to her full height so that she towered over the short, dumpy figure of the cook. ‘In my previous position,’ she said, with deliberate condescension,
‘they employed a seamstress to do all the sewing and mending jobs. Not like here, where they can’t afford a proper complement of servants.’

‘Then why, pray,’ Mrs Grundy asked, hands on her hips and her head wagging from side to side, ‘didn’t you stay in your previous fancy position instead of lowering yarsen
to come and work with the likes of us, eh?’

Lucy sniffed. ‘
My
young lady went away. To finishing school. And if you ask me, that’s exactly where she . . .’ she jerked her thumb towards the door leading to the
upstairs, ‘ought to go too. Might teach her some manners.’

‘Now just you look here—’ Mrs Grundy began again.

Kitty, forestalling another argument, said, ‘Let ’er go, Mrs Grundy. She ain’t happy here, that’s obvious. There’s plenty more girls’d like ’er job.
Ladies’ maids are two a penny.’

Lucy turned her pale grey eyes upon Kitty, looking down her long nose. ‘I expect you think you could do the job, don’t you? Well, you’re welcome to it. See how you like having
your hair torn from its roots.’

The girl turned away and missed seeing the gleam in Kitty’s brown eyes. It did not, however, escape Mrs Grundy’s notice. ‘Kitty,’ she began warningly. But Kitty, too,
turned away to hide the smile that twitched at the corner of her mouth, trying to still the sudden swift excited beating of her heart.

Why not? she asked herself. Why shouldn’t I be a lady’s maid? I’ve worked in this kitchen for three years, she reminded herself, remembering the day her mother had brought her
to the Manor.

They had stood on the pavement looking up at the impressive old house that stood on a road leading out of the market town of Tresford. No one knew exactly when the house had been built. Some
said that the central part had been built in the sixteenth century, originally a mud and stud structure that had been encased in brick walls at a much later date and probably added to by various
owners down the centuries. Inside, the rooms led from one to another in a maze of passages and stairs and creaking boards and there was a strange feeling that the rough-hewn timbers held the
secrets of long ago and the walls still enveloped the ghosts of the generations who had lived there.

Kitty had arrived on a bright, warm morning in May and as she stood in front of the house, her gaze roamed over the pale mauve flowers of the wistaria that wound its way around the front door
and crept over the brickwork, threatening to engulf the sash windows above. She loved the grey mottled thatch of the roof, the three sets of chimney stacks, so symmetrically placed. Prickly,
variegated holly bushes guarded the front gate and a tiny blue butterfly hovered over the flowers on one of them. Kitty had made a step towards the gate to take a closer look but her mother had
grasped her shoulder and propelled her further along the road and into the wide driveway at the side of the house.

‘Servants by the back door. Always know your place, Kitty.’ It was her mother’s maxim and she had drilled it into her eldest daughter for as long as the girl could remember.
‘When you go into service, Kitty, you give your life to those who put the food in your mouth and give you shelter. They deserve your devotion and your undying loyalty always – no matter
what it costs.’ Her voice dropped almost to a whisper as she repeated the words, ‘No matter what it costs you.’

At the side of the house, the wide driveway circled a clump of trees – hollies with dark green leaves, a sycamore, a yew tree and pines that stretched tall and straight to the sky. The
drive opened out before the stables which were built at right angles to the house and against the wall enclosing the garden at the rear of the house. And beyond the driveway, more trees bordered
the beck that ran along the edge of the Manor House grounds and then curved away, meandering through the flat farmland.

‘Oh Mam, look, just look at that huge tree. Look at its big roots,’ the excited young girl had exclaimed. ‘It must be hundreds of years old. Why, it’s higher than the
house.’

‘Yes, yes, Kitty, come along.’ Her mother was impatient now, pulling her past the towering copper beech and through the gate in the wall at the side of the stables. Gripping
Kitty’s hand, Betsy Clegg had scurried past the ground floor windows of the house, keeping her head averted until they came to the back door. Then she had seemed to breathe more easily.

Puzzled by her mother’s obvious agitation, Kitty had said, ‘What’s the matter, Mam?’

‘Nothing – nothing, child. I just didn’t want to be seen by—’ She broke off and then added swiftly, ‘Be seen from the house, that’s all.’

‘Why?’ Kitty had questioned innocently. ‘Aren’t we supposed to be here?’

‘
You
are,’ her mother had said, ‘but I’m not so sure that I . . .’ Again she altered what she had been about to say and instead said impatiently, ‘Oh
do stop asking questions, Kitty, and let’s get inside.’

Her mother had almost pushed her through the back door and into the kitchen.

‘Well, here she is, Mrs Grundy.’ Sitting down at the large table, Betsy accepted the cup of tea the cook placed in front of her. The thirteen-year-old Kitty stood awkwardly, gawping
at her mother’s familiarity with the cook in this big, awesome house.

‘’Ow’ve ya been, then, Betsy? By, but it seems a long time since you worked here. I still miss you. We allus got on well together, didn’t we?’

Kitty, her sharp ears missing nothing of the conversation passing between the two women, looked about her. This kitchen was immense. Under the window was a deep white sink with proper taps,
Kitty noticed, rather than the pump handle at the side like the sink they had at home. That would make her life a little easier, she thought. Directly opposite the window, an enormous brick
fireplace dominated the wall, but into its recess had been fitted a more modern black cooking range. On the wall alongside it, copper pans hung in neat rows, battered with constant use, yet they
still shone and sparkled in the light. Kitty could imagine the work that had gone into cleaning them and her arm ached at the thought. Suspended from hooks in the ceiling were huge hams, wrapped in
cloth, and at one end of the kitchen stood a dresser, its shelves lined with willow-patterned plates, cups and saucers. Kitty bit her lip, realizing she would have to get used to handling such fine
china.

In the corner near the dresser, a door opened on to a flight of steeply twisting stone steps that led both upwards into a dairy and a pantry beyond and also downwards into a cellar where rows
and rows of the master’s wine lay in racks. Above this door a row of tiny brass bells bounced on curved springs and in the same corner was the door leading into the front hall of the house.
But much of the upper part of the house, Kitty knew, would remain a mystery to her and she turned her attention back to the place that would, from now on, be her home.

She was still standing beside the large table in the centre of the kitchen. Its wooden surface was worn into gentle, undulating hollows by the constant scrubbing it received to bring it almost
to whiteness.

‘We did.’ Kitty’s mother was nodding agreement to Mrs Grundy’s reminiscence. ‘And we had some good times, as well as . . .’ Her voice faded away and the cook
cut in as if to cover an awkwardness.

‘Let’s see, ’ow long is it since you left?’

Kitty saw her mother’s glance flicker towards her and then fall away. ‘About seventeen years,’ she murmured.

‘And you’ve got a lovely family, ain’t you? You bin all right with John Clegg, then?’

‘He’s a good man. A good husband and father. But I – I fear he’s never been happy with his job on the railway.’

‘Well, he ought to be, Betsy. Stationmaster now, ain’t he? And you’ve always had a railway house. A nice house, too, much nicer than a farm labourer’s cottage.’ She
sniffed. ‘Some men are never satisfied, if you ask me.’

‘Well . . .’ Betsy twisted her fingers together. ‘He always loved his job with the horses, you know, but after . . .’ Again a swift glance at Kitty. ‘After he left
the Manor, the only jobs going round here at that time were on the railway. It was the wrong time of year for a farm worker’s job, you see.’

‘I remember,’ Mrs Grundy said softly. Then, as if trying to reassure her old friend, she added brightly, ‘But that’s men for you. Always wanting what they haven’t
got. He’d never’ve had the position he’s got in the town now if he’d stayed with horses, now would he?’

Betsy shrugged but made no reply.

‘Well, he wouldn’t.’ The cook answered her own question. ‘Besides,’ she added as a fresh thought struck her, ‘if he ’ad stayed here, he wouldn’t
be with horses now anyway.’

For a moment Kitty’s mother looked puzzled as Mrs Grundy leaned forward. ‘He’d have been driving that there motey car.’ She gave a cackle of laughter. ‘But poor old
Bemmy’s got the job instead.
And
he hates it, I can tell you.’ She leaned back in her chair and nodded wisely. ‘Your John Clegg’s done all right for himself if only
he’d think so. So don’t you go on blaming yarsen for the rest of your life, Betsy, that he lost his job wi’ horses because of you.’

Kitty’s mother smiled weakly, but looked unconvinced, even by the stout-hearted Mrs Grundy.

At this point Kitty had butted in. ‘Did you work here, then, Mam? At the Manor? You never said.’

The two women had looked up at her then, almost as if they had forgotten she was there, but it was the cook, not her mother, who said sternly, ‘Well, one thing you’ll have to learn
here, m’girl, is to speak when you’re spoken to and not ’afore.’

Kitty had clamped her mouth shut, feeling a stab of dismay. She had hoped the cook would be a kindly soul and yet already she was telling her off. Then Kitty had seen Mrs Grundy wink at her
mother and at once the young girl had sensed that the reprimand had been merely to let a cheeky kitchen maid know her place from the outset. It did not herald a life of misery for her under a
bad-tempered superior.

Betsy Clegg had risen to her feet. ‘I’d best be getting back. The bairns’ll be shouting for their tea.’

‘’Ow many you got then, Betsy?’

Her mother had nodded towards Kitty. ‘She’s me eldest, then there’s two lads and three more girls. The youngest, Robert, is only eight months old.’

Mrs Grundy shook her head slowly. ‘Well, I can see now why you want young Kitty ’ere placed.’ Their attention had turned to Kitty, still standing by the table.

Betsy had sighed. ‘Well, I hope you can do summat with her, ’cos she’s a wild one, I don’t mind admitting. But she’s got her good points, I’ll say that for
her, even though she’s me own. She’s a worker. Set her owt to do, an’ she’ll do it. Anything from scrubbing to sewing. Neatest little stiches you ever did see, she can
do.’

‘Well, she’ll have no energy left for her wild ways once she gets working here, and there’ll be more of the scrubbing than the fancy stitching.’ Mrs Grundy’s mouth
had been a firm, resolute line, but still the young girl had seen the twinkle in the cook’s eyes.

That moment had set the tone of their relationship. Mrs Grundy was strict and worked Kitty hard, but she was always fair and had a rough, but kindly concern for the little kitchen maid in her
charge.

On that first day and for several weeks afterwards, Kitty had seen little more of the Manor beyond the kitchen, the backyard and its wash-house, and the way up the back stairs to her attic
bedroom under the thatch.

But now, three years later, thought Kitty Clegg with growing excitement, now there was a chance for her to better herself. Ever since that first day, she’d been little more than a skivvy,
with chapped and calloused hands and wearing rough, scullery maid’s clothes. But not any more, she told herself. Come hell or high water, she was going to be Miss Miriam’s new
lady’s maid. You just see if I’m not, she said to Mrs Grundy.

But the challenge was only in her mind and not a word passed her lips.

Nervously Kitty smoothed the palms of her hands down her clean apron, patted the cap enveloping her unruly black hair, licked her lips and knocked boldly on the door of Mrs
Franklin’s sitting room on the first floor.

A gentle, cultured voice called ‘Come in’ and Kitty pushed open the door. Even though, on this warm August day, bright sunlight streamed in through the long windows to her right, Mrs
Franklin was seated to one side of the fireplace where a fire burned in the grate. Her head was bent over a frame of petit point, her nimble fingers threading the needle through the canvas, one
hand above the work, one beneath it. Kitty closed the door quietly behind her and tiptoed into the room to stand a short distance from Mrs Franklin. Fascinated by the brightly coloured wool
speeding in and out of the canvas, the neat stitches forming the picture before her eyes, Kitty spoke without thinking. ‘Oh how clever you are, madam.’ The words, perhaps somewhat
presumptuous from a lowly kitchen maid, were nonetheless genuine.