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Authors: Caroline Dunford
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and brother are far away and your son and his family are within twenty minutes’ walk of the house.’
‘I’m not one to ask for favours,’ said Mrs Tweedy and shut her mouth in a tight little line. This was also true.
‘I am going to suggest that we also have a celebration for the staff, and,’ I added, struck by a sudden idea, ‘why do I not suggest to Mr Stapleford that he includes the families of his local staff as there are so many of you nearby, and most of them are already his tenants.’
Mrs Tweedy’s grim face softened slightly. ‘There’s no point, Euphemia,’ she said. ‘None of them would come.’
‘Why ever not?’ I asked. ‘Is Mr Stapleford so disliked? I thought now he has appointed the factor and all is in place for getting the land back into condition, his people would be grateful for the work he has brought to the area.’
A faint flush crept over the cook’s face. ‘It’s true his coming has been a blessing to the village. It’s not that.’
‘Then what has he done that they would all spurn him at Christmas?’
Mrs Tweedy shook her head. ‘It’s not his fault,’ she said. ‘I’m just saying don’t go making more work for yourself with a servants’ and tenants’ party. No one will thank you for it.’
I continued to press her, but she would reveal nothing more. In the end I gave orders for dinner, lunch being already in preparation, and left her to it. I noted that Jenny, our kitchen maid, stayed safely in the pantry, so I was unable to question her without trapping her in her tiny domain, which I was loath to do as Jenny had yet to grow out of her crushing shyness.
Instead I turned my thoughts to Mr Bertram and how long a guest list he might currently be writing. I should ensure that he kept his expectations within the bounds of reality. By now he would be in his study. I left the kitchen and had got no further than the first corridor before I was accosted by a strange hissing noise.
I froze, at once fearing the gas lamps were malfunctioning. They were my true terror of this house. Some of the fittings had looked so odd to me that I had ordered parts of the house to be lit only by candlelight in case we were all overcome in our beds or blown into the next life by explosion.
The noise came again and this time a grubby little hand tugged at my sleeve. ‘Sam!’ I said to our young boot boy, ‘you scared the life out of me!’
‘Hush, please m’um!’ He put a finger to his lips and tugged harder on my sleeve. Intrigued by his forwardness, not that Sam is one to ever shirk the opportunity for mischief, I let him lead me into a quiet corner of a servants’ passage.
‘Sorry, m’um,’ he said, taking off his cap and twisting it to and fro in his small hands,’ but I reckons none of them is ever going to tell you and I’m mortal feart.’
‘Of what, Sam?’ I asked kindly. Sam had come to us from a London orphanage and neither he nor we had any idea of his true age. At this time we thought he was younger than ten, but years of malnourishment had kept him smaller than he should be.’
‘It’s the curse, m’um. No one wants to be here over Christmas.’
‘But,’ I began,’ and then realised that it was the first Christmas under Bertram, as White Orchards had been shut up each previous Christmas since he had bought it, for one reason or another, mostly due to the series of necessary repairs.
‘Please m’um. I don’t want to die.’
‘Sam, if this is one of your stories,’ I warned.
‘No m’um, it ain’t. I had it from Billy. Mrs Tweedy’s grandson. I go down to the village on my afternoon off and play with the other lads.’ He cast his eyes down at this as if it was some great transgression.
‘I’m sure they were only teasing you, Sam,’ I said though there were little prickles running up and down the back of my neck. Raised as a vicar’s daughter in a rural area I was only too aware of what chaos superstition could bring. Indeed, it had
‘I’m not one to ask for favours,’ said Mrs Tweedy and shut her mouth in a tight little line. This was also true.
‘I am going to suggest that we also have a celebration for the staff, and,’ I added, struck by a sudden idea, ‘why do I not suggest to Mr Stapleford that he includes the families of his local staff as there are so many of you nearby, and most of them are already his tenants.’
Mrs Tweedy’s grim face softened slightly. ‘There’s no point, Euphemia,’ she said. ‘None of them would come.’
‘Why ever not?’ I asked. ‘Is Mr Stapleford so disliked? I thought now he has appointed the factor and all is in place for getting the land back into condition, his people would be grateful for the work he has brought to the area.’
A faint flush crept over the cook’s face. ‘It’s true his coming has been a blessing to the village. It’s not that.’
‘Then what has he done that they would all spurn him at Christmas?’
Mrs Tweedy shook her head. ‘It’s not his fault,’ she said. ‘I’m just saying don’t go making more work for yourself with a servants’ and tenants’ party. No one will thank you for it.’
I continued to press her, but she would reveal nothing more. In the end I gave orders for dinner, lunch being already in preparation, and left her to it. I noted that Jenny, our kitchen maid, stayed safely in the pantry, so I was unable to question her without trapping her in her tiny domain, which I was loath to do as Jenny had yet to grow out of her crushing shyness.
Instead I turned my thoughts to Mr Bertram and how long a guest list he might currently be writing. I should ensure that he kept his expectations within the bounds of reality. By now he would be in his study. I left the kitchen and had got no further than the first corridor before I was accosted by a strange hissing noise.
I froze, at once fearing the gas lamps were malfunctioning. They were my true terror of this house. Some of the fittings had looked so odd to me that I had ordered parts of the house to be lit only by candlelight in case we were all overcome in our beds or blown into the next life by explosion.
The noise came again and this time a grubby little hand tugged at my sleeve. ‘Sam!’ I said to our young boot boy, ‘you scared the life out of me!’
‘Hush, please m’um!’ He put a finger to his lips and tugged harder on my sleeve. Intrigued by his forwardness, not that Sam is one to ever shirk the opportunity for mischief, I let him lead me into a quiet corner of a servants’ passage.
‘Sorry, m’um,’ he said, taking off his cap and twisting it to and fro in his small hands,’ but I reckons none of them is ever going to tell you and I’m mortal feart.’
‘Of what, Sam?’ I asked kindly. Sam had come to us from a London orphanage and neither he nor we had any idea of his true age. At this time we thought he was younger than ten, but years of malnourishment had kept him smaller than he should be.’
‘It’s the curse, m’um. No one wants to be here over Christmas.’
‘But,’ I began,’ and then realised that it was the first Christmas under Bertram, as White Orchards had been shut up each previous Christmas since he had bought it, for one reason or another, mostly due to the series of necessary repairs.
‘Please m’um. I don’t want to die.’
‘Sam, if this is one of your stories,’ I warned.
‘No m’um, it ain’t. I had it from Billy. Mrs Tweedy’s grandson. I go down to the village on my afternoon off and play with the other lads.’ He cast his eyes down at this as if it was some great transgression.
‘I’m sure they were only teasing you, Sam,’ I said though there were little prickles running up and down the back of my neck. Raised as a vicar’s daughter in a rural area I was only too aware of what chaos superstition could bring. Indeed, it had
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