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Authors: Judith Cutler
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a new variety. ‘Though I believe last summer’s seemed to have taken on a pinker hue. Perhaps humankind is like bulbs. Perhaps we could make changes by selective breeding.’
I laughed in his face.
‘Consider’, he said seriously, ‘your family. Are they all like you, tall and well set up?’
‘Mostly. But – and this is never spoken of – I believe my mother was brought to bed of a strange, runtish child who was immediately put out to a kind family on one of our more remote estates.’ I blushed. ‘I swore I would never reveal my background, and that secret in particular. Edmund, pray, forget that I said that.’
He gestured acquiescence. ‘My dear friend, I have always known you are from the ton . How else would you speak, even walk, the way you do? But your secret – such as it is – is safe with me. After all, you have spoken of nothing that would notapply to a dozen or more of the upper ten thousand. I could not possibly deduce of which family you spoke. Now,’ he said, getting to his feet, ‘I have rewarded myself for this past year’s industry. To celebrate my new billiards table in my equally new billiards room, shall we adjourn and pot a few balls?’
My eyes had been opened to another aspect of below-stairs life by my schoolroom activities at Moreton Priory. Used as I was to life the family side of the green baize door, with some inconveniences more than outweighed by the many luxuries I took for granted, I was surprised how few of what I considered the necessities of life the servants enjoyed. Gone were the rich hangings and thick carpets, the warmth of great fires, the brilliance of candelabra; here were stone floors, green-painted walls, endless unheated corridors and the meanest spluttering working candles. All life was ruled by a row of bells hanging inside the servants’ hall; at the faintest jangle, a young man or woman would set off as if his or her life depended upon it.
Of course I did not venture into the attics, where the lowest servants were accommodated, but the spartan quarters of that most charming of women, Mrs Beckles, did not augur well for her juniors. Her sitting room appeared to have been furnished with anything the family no longer valued. The carpet was Aubusson, I suspect, but was faded and had been cut to fit the room. One armchair might be Hepplewhite, but someone had had to glue an arm in place. The walls were hung with pictures by distinguished artists, but none was clean and none inspired anything other than feelings of gloom. One wall was devoted to silhouettes, the homely framing of which suggestedthat Mrs Beckles might have executed the portraits herself. I was sure that she had at least selected the volumes almost filling a small bookcase, where I found, alongside two or three collections of sermons, novels by Richardson and Fielding – though I was surprised to see a member of the fairer sex possessing Tom Jones , Smollett and a selection of Gothic tales. I was happier to see much poetry, both ancient and modern. In all, however, I was confirmed in my opinion that Mrs Beckles was an extraordinary lady – certainly my mother, who prided herself on keeping up to date with fashionable writers, did not have half so fine a personal collection.
I never had occasion to penetrate Mr Woodvine’s portal, but suspected that, like that of Mr Davies, the steward, the butler’s would be a slightly larger, but even drabber room. If either man left his door ajar, he could see that row of all-important bells.
Inside, there were no novels for Davies, at least, but tomes on the management of land that made me yawn to contemplate them. On the other hand, now I was supposed to be overseeing my own glebe lands, or at least making sure that Ford, my own resentful steward, did not fleece me, so I had called on Davies to ask which one he might recommend – the smallest, for preference. He had his hand outstretched to pass me one, when chaos broke out, in the form of the
I laughed in his face.
‘Consider’, he said seriously, ‘your family. Are they all like you, tall and well set up?’
‘Mostly. But – and this is never spoken of – I believe my mother was brought to bed of a strange, runtish child who was immediately put out to a kind family on one of our more remote estates.’ I blushed. ‘I swore I would never reveal my background, and that secret in particular. Edmund, pray, forget that I said that.’
He gestured acquiescence. ‘My dear friend, I have always known you are from the ton . How else would you speak, even walk, the way you do? But your secret – such as it is – is safe with me. After all, you have spoken of nothing that would notapply to a dozen or more of the upper ten thousand. I could not possibly deduce of which family you spoke. Now,’ he said, getting to his feet, ‘I have rewarded myself for this past year’s industry. To celebrate my new billiards table in my equally new billiards room, shall we adjourn and pot a few balls?’
My eyes had been opened to another aspect of below-stairs life by my schoolroom activities at Moreton Priory. Used as I was to life the family side of the green baize door, with some inconveniences more than outweighed by the many luxuries I took for granted, I was surprised how few of what I considered the necessities of life the servants enjoyed. Gone were the rich hangings and thick carpets, the warmth of great fires, the brilliance of candelabra; here were stone floors, green-painted walls, endless unheated corridors and the meanest spluttering working candles. All life was ruled by a row of bells hanging inside the servants’ hall; at the faintest jangle, a young man or woman would set off as if his or her life depended upon it.
Of course I did not venture into the attics, where the lowest servants were accommodated, but the spartan quarters of that most charming of women, Mrs Beckles, did not augur well for her juniors. Her sitting room appeared to have been furnished with anything the family no longer valued. The carpet was Aubusson, I suspect, but was faded and had been cut to fit the room. One armchair might be Hepplewhite, but someone had had to glue an arm in place. The walls were hung with pictures by distinguished artists, but none was clean and none inspired anything other than feelings of gloom. One wall was devoted to silhouettes, the homely framing of which suggestedthat Mrs Beckles might have executed the portraits herself. I was sure that she had at least selected the volumes almost filling a small bookcase, where I found, alongside two or three collections of sermons, novels by Richardson and Fielding – though I was surprised to see a member of the fairer sex possessing Tom Jones , Smollett and a selection of Gothic tales. I was happier to see much poetry, both ancient and modern. In all, however, I was confirmed in my opinion that Mrs Beckles was an extraordinary lady – certainly my mother, who prided herself on keeping up to date with fashionable writers, did not have half so fine a personal collection.
I never had occasion to penetrate Mr Woodvine’s portal, but suspected that, like that of Mr Davies, the steward, the butler’s would be a slightly larger, but even drabber room. If either man left his door ajar, he could see that row of all-important bells.
Inside, there were no novels for Davies, at least, but tomes on the management of land that made me yawn to contemplate them. On the other hand, now I was supposed to be overseeing my own glebe lands, or at least making sure that Ford, my own resentful steward, did not fleece me, so I had called on Davies to ask which one he might recommend – the smallest, for preference. He had his hand outstretched to pass me one, when chaos broke out, in the form of the
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