I’ll Bring You Buttercups. Elizabeth Elgin

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      ‘It is perfect, Mary. I can’t fault it. It would seem I taught you well. You can tell Miss Clitherow that only the place-cards need to be seen to now, for where guests will sit is nothing to do with us. Then we shall do as Tilda bids, and be off to the kitchen for a sup.’ She took the parlourmaid’s arm and tucked it in her own. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Mrs Shaw hasn’t made cherry scones: she always used to on dinner-party days. I still remember those scones. Oh, but this is going to be a rare day for me, Mary. It’s so good to be back at Rowangarth.’

      Mrs Shaw sat herself down in the kitchen rocker and, taking a corner of her apron in each hand, billowed it out like a fan to cool her burning cheeks.

      ‘You can pour now, Tilda, and pass round the scones, for I’m fair whacked already …’

      And loving every minute of, Ellen thought, washing her hands at the sinkstone; loving it as she always had before Sir John was taken and there had been a dinner party at least once a month.

      ‘Come now, Mrs Shaw,’ she admonished with a forwardness permitted only because of her marital state and her past years of service at Rowangarth. ‘You know you’ll be queen of the kitchen tonight, and all of them upstairs exclaiming over your cooking.’ And though she knew that a parlourmaid must never repeat table talk, it would be expected of both herself and Mary to pass on overheard compliments. ‘I can say for certain that Judge Mounteagle will allow himself to be persuaded to take another of your savouries, and you’ll have seen to it there’ll be extra, especially for him.’

      Glowing, Cook accepted the plate and cup placed at her side, knowing everything Ellen said to be true, for wasn’t she indeed queen of her own kitchen, and as such had never seen the need for wedlock when all her heart could ever want was at Rowangarth. Here, she could go to bed master and get up next morning her own mistress, for the title of ‘Mrs’ was one of kindness, allowed to unmarried cooks and nannies. Truth known she was Miss Shaw and for ever would remain so.

      ‘Aah,’ she murmured, drinking deeply, smiling secretly. ‘Queen of nothing I once was. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was my twelfth birthday and the next day I left school. There were nine of us bairns; all to keep on a sovereign-a-week’s wages. I was one of the middle three, the fifth, right in the middle, and middle children had a hard time of it, I can tell you.’

      She closed her eyes, calling back the firstborn brothers, well able to stick up for themselves, and the three youngest, petted like the babies they still were.

      ‘Us in the middle were all girls, all mouths to feed and backs to clothe; so Mam had no choice. Taken to Mother Beswick at the Mop Fair all three of us were: in them days, servants was hired at the Mop Fairs. I remember when it was my turn to go, and Mam telling me to work hard and not complain and say my prayers at night. Then she kissed me and gave Mother Beswick a florin and asked her to place me with an upright family if she could manage it. I never saw my mother again …’

      ‘And?’ prompted Ellen, as the elderly cook lapsed into remembering and Tilda sniffed loudly and dabbed her eyes with her apron.

      ‘And I was the luckiest lass in the North Riding that day,’ Cook beamed, ‘for didn’t Mrs Stormont’s housekeeper take me? Lady Helen’s mother, Mrs Stormont was, and a real gentlewoman. And I was trained up to under-cook, then came here to Rowangarth with Miss Helen when she married Sir John.’

      ‘Ar,’ sighed Tilda, who liked happy endings, ‘but what if you’d been placed middle-class? What if some shopkeeper’s wife had taken you for a skivvy?’

      ‘What if nothing!’ Cook selected another cherry scone. ‘I ended up here, didn’t I, and determined never to wed and have bairns to rear to line Ma Beswick’s pocket; a lesson you’d do well to heed, young Tilda.’

      ‘Yes, Mrs Shaw,’ agreed the kitchenmaid, though she was only waiting, like the heroines in her love books, to be swept off her feet by the romance of her life. Exactly like Miss Julia had been; snatched from the jaws of death by a young doctor who’d been waiting for a beautiful woman to fall at his feet in a faint. Miss Julia, who was head over heels in love.

      Tilda drained her cup, then resumed her peeling and scraping and slicing and podding. Resumed it for the time being, that was. Until he came.

      On hands and knees in the great hall where tonight milady would be receiving, Bessie rubbed tea-leaves into the rugs. For the past two days, teapots had been drained and the swollen leaves squeezed and set aside for carpet cleaning. There was nothing like them for taking away the dusty, musty smell and freshening jaded colours, Miss Clitherow insisted.

      Bessie brushed the tea-leaves out vigorously, mindful that the under-gardener waited outside with a barrow filled with potted plants and ferns from the planthouse, to arrange in the hall so that tonight it would seem as if the garden had crept inside.

      Bessie sighed happily. Tonight, in place of Alice whose face was not yet presentable, she would be on duty in the bedroom set aside for lady guests, on hand to receive cloaks and wraps, offer small gold safety-pins if required, and smelling-salts where necessary, and listen, eyes downcast, to the gossip. And, best of all, she would see the beautiful dinner gowns at first hand instead of being stuck below stairs, seeing nothing, hearing nothing.

      She didn’t mind the extra work at all, because this sad old house had come alive again, and there would be luncheon parties and dinner parties galore from now on. And there would be at least a shilling in tips left for her on the dressing-table, she shouldn’t wonder.

      ‘You can come in now,’ she told the young man she had kept waiting for the past ten minutes. ‘I’ll leave the pan and brush so you can sweep up after yourself if you make any mess, for I’m too busy to do it,’ she declared, whisking away so that her skirts swung wide, offering a glimpse of ankle that made him flush with pleasure.

      He formed his lips into a long, low whistle, a sound that stopped her in her tracks. She turned to face his slow wink of approval. ‘Cheeky!’ she said airily. ‘And you’d best leave the pan and brush at the kitchen door when you’re done,’ she ordered.

      Cheeky he might be, but when he returned the pan and brush, she just might return that wink …

      ‘Now tell me,’ whispered Ellen, as she laid her best dress and apron on Mary’s bed, ‘if it’s true what I hear – that Miss Julia has an admirer?’

      ‘It’s true,’ came the unhesitating reply, for Ellen was entirely to be trusted. ‘Met him in London, in Hyde Park. Ever so romantic. She tripped and fell, see, because of her tight old skirt, and he was there like a shot, holding her hand, seeing to her. It was meant to be, if you ask me. And he’s so nice and kindly in his manner. Make a lovely couple …’

      ‘Then I’ll be back, I shouldn’t wonder, to help out at the wedding.’ Ellen undressed without embarrassment, she and Mary having shared this very room in the old days.

      ‘Wouldn’t be at all surprised. But I’ll just fill your basin, then you can get washed and changed. And you can use my scented soap, Ellen, and my talcum powder.’

      ‘Oooh, thanks, love.’ Since she had married, such things were a luxury; though she knew that a parlourmaid, when serving at table and reaching and passing, must never, ever give offence. ‘I’m grateful.’

      And oh, wasn’t it going to be just like old times again tonight, and wouldn’t it be grand having five shillings of her own to spend exactly as she pleased?

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