Upstairs, Downstairs

A housemaid’s life

When I’ve finished the CARPETS, I’ll be sitting with a BOWL of hot PORRIDGE

Pale morning light seeps through the curtains and the dawn chorus is in full voice. It’s time to get up, but my bed is a cosy, nesting place and I don’t want to move.

If I don’t move soon, Mrs MacDonald will rap her fat knuckles on the door.

“A lazy lie-a-bed, you are, Hetty,” she’ll scold me loudly. Prudie is already up and moving. “Shift yourself,” she hisses at me. She stands, shivering in her bodice and drawers, in front of the small square of mirror hanging on the wall between our beds and rubs at her teeth with a piece of well-worn rag. “Mr Osborne and his father have been invited to eat with the family again tonight so that means work and more work.”

“I can help out. I can peel vegetables,” I say.

“You’re the housemaid,” is her tight-lipped response. “You concentrate on doing what you get paid for.”

I wait until she’s dressed before I leave the comfort of my warm sheets – I’m in no rush because the bare wooden floor is cold, and the water in the porcelain ewer will be even colder.

There is a sliver of sweet-scented soap left in the dish on the washstand which makes the business of bathing a little less dismal on a chilly morning like this one, but it’s still just a lick and a promise before I pull on my woollen stockings, hurry into my work dress and apron, and feel my way down the unlit back staircase to the kitchen.

“You need to get a move on, my girl,” Mrs MacDonald warns me. “Thomas will lay the table for breakfast while you’re sorting out the grate. After you’ve brushed down the stair carpet and made the beds, you’ll need to go straight back in that dining room and make sure the place is spotless.”

I roll my eyes in response at the long list of tasks ahead of me.

“Why all the fuss?” I ask her. “I thought Mr Osborne had already proposed to Miss Matilda. Though Lord knows why she’d want to accept him,” I add under my breath.

“She doesn’t have much choice, does she?” Prudie pipes up. “Twenty-five years old and still unwed.”

“Well, I wouldn’t marry him for love nor money,” I say. “He’s an ugly old brute.” And I wrinkle my nose in disgust.

“You mind your manners, young lady.” Mrs MacDonald is quick to reprimand me. “It’s not your place to comment.” She gives me another warning glare. “Do I have to tell you again? Get moving!”

I gather my brushes and cloths and creep upstairs, closing the door as quietly as I can. No one must be disturbed.

Thomas is already in the dining room. He’s drawn the curtains and filled the coal scuttle.

“You’re late,” he barks at me. “If they catch you in here when they come down, you’ll be for the high jump.”

“I’m going as fast as these legs can carry me,” I tell him and immediately set to work removing the ashes from the cold fire. I can feel his hard, black eyes on the back of my neck, watching my every move. He’s only been a footman in Mr and Mrs Carpenter’s household for a few months, but already he thinks he’s in charge of the servants’ hall.

I work steadily, cleaning the grate with a coarse brush and polishing the copper until it gleams.

Thomas lays the breakfast table with care and precision. It’s his attention to detail that endears him to Mrs MacDonald, but I don’t like him and I won’t pretend that I do. We work on in silence. As soon as I finish, Thomas ushers me out of the room, telling me he needs to get the fire going. The whole house is cold except for the kitchen so I don’t argue with him; the sooner I’ve finished cleaning the carpets in the hallway, the sooner I’ll be sitting with a bowl of hot porridge, warming my feet and hands on the kitchen stove.

Prudie is still peeling vegetables when I return to the kitchen, but Thomas has finished laying the fire in the dining room and is drinking tea with noisy slurps. He offers me a sneering, unpleasant grin as if to say, See…I beat you to it.

Mrs MacDonald is loading a heavy, wooden tray with serving dishes of crisp

bacon and lightly scrambled eggs. She places a batch of sweet rolls and a large pat of yellow butter in the middle of the tray and tells Thomas, “Leave the covers on or the food will get cold before it’s had a chance to get eaten.”

“I know what I’m doing, Mrs MacDonald. I don’t need to be told twice. Unlike some I could mention,” he adds and throws another scornful glance in my direction.

Mrs MacDonald ignores the implication. She likes him well enough, but she’s been in service all her life and knows that competition in the ranks only promotes division. We need to work as a team.

She tells him, “Just get moving, Thomas. We’ve a long day ahead of us and I’ll be reminding each and every one of you as many times as it takes to get things done promptly.”

He looks surprised. “I’m only saying,” he says in a gruff voice, and he snatches up the tray and marches back to the dining room, muttering angrily to himself.

Prudie looks up from the pile of peeled vegetables and shows me a knowing smile. Mrs MacDonald is firm but fair and she won’t let Thomas get too big for his boots.

I ladle porridge into a bowl and pull up a stool next to the stove. By the end of the morning, the kitchen will be hotter than a blacksmith’s forge and we’ll all be cursing the heat and the steam, but for now, I’m glad to warm myself and take the weight off my feet.

The back door is opened unexpectedly allowing a blast of cold air into the room. Old George sidles into the kitchen. He always smells of hay and horse sweat, but his cheery disposition makes him more then welcome, especially on a morning like this one.

“Any chance of a bit of bread and butter, Mrs Mac?” he asks. “I’ve been up all night with Master Edward’s young mare. Just a bit of colic, but you can’t be too careful, and that new lad, Samuel, he took on? He was sleeping like a baby before the clock struck twelve. Totally useless, he was.”

I’ve finished my porridge so I jump up to fetch a plate from the dresser, but Mrs MacDonald waves me back to my seat. She slices a thick chunk of bread from a fresh loaf, spreads it liberally with butter and hands it straight to George. He looks at his soiled hands, shrugs, smiles and happily accepts the food.

“You’re a good woman,” he tells her. “I’m a busy woman, George. Mr Osborne and his father are dining with the family tonight.”

“Ah… so that’s what the fuss was all about,” he says. “Fuss?” she asks him. “Yesterday… Master Edward and Miss Matilda in the back of the carriage… fighting like they did when they were children. In tears, she was. Said she didn’t want to marry this Mr Osborne. Said she’d rather be an old maid than be wed to someone she didn’t love.”

Mrs MacDonald’s face crumples. She dabs her eyes with the edge of her apron.

“You shouldn’t speak of such things, George,” she tells him. “It isn’t any of our business.”

“Maybe not,” he says. “But it breaks my heart to see the girl weep so sorely.”

Prudie joins me by the stove. The sharp corners of her face have softened in sorrow. I slip my hand into hers.

I say, “Why must she accept his proposal? Why can’t she choose who it is that she marries?”

Mrs MacDonald sighs. “Because he’s a respectable gentleman, and it’s a good match,” she says. “I’ve heard the mistress say he has an income of three thousand pounds. That’s not to be turned away without serious consideration.”

“But he’s so much older than Miss Matilda,” I persist.

“He’ll give her a fine home of her own and – God willing – a child that will fill her heart with joy.”

I know these are words of wisdom – Miss Matilda’s youthful good looks will fade with every passing year, as will her chances of finding a suitable husband – but I feel a surge of sympathy for her. I would not want such a life for thirty thousand pounds, I resolve. I will only marry for love.

When Thomas returns to the kitchen with the empty serving dishes and dirty breakfast plates, he tells me to get moving. It’s a constant refrain in my life.

But Mrs Carpenter appears in the doorway behind him, and everyone stops what they’re doing. Prudie drops a curtsey, but Mrs MacDonald just wipes the flour from her hands on her apron and wishes our mistress, “Good morning, Madam.”

“Don’t worry about serving lunch, Mrs MacDonald,” Mrs Carpenter tells her. “Mr Carpenter and Master Edward are meeting with the steward so they’ll be out of the house for the rest of the day, and I’m taking Miss Matilda to visit our cousin.”

She suddenly spots old George warming his cold toes on the stove. “Oh, there you are Jones.” She bestows on him a haughty frown. “Perhaps when you’ve finished here you can bring the carriage to the front door. Thirty minutes. And don’t be late!” She sweeps out of the kitchen without a backward glance.

“You’d best get moving, George,” Mrs MacDonald warns him. “She looks like she means business today.” I suddenly find myself on my feet. “I’ll tell Sam,” I say. Thomas is still standing to attention but he immediately places the breakfast tray on the table.

“Hetty, you’ve still got the dining room to sort. And I’m not making beds nor emptying chamber pots. Not for anyone.”

No one speaks, but Mrs MacDonald slowly walks to the sink and washes her hands. When she turns round, I recognise the expression on her round-cheeked face, and I can tell Thomas knows he’s overstepped the mark this time.

“You need to get moving, Thomas,” she says in a low voice. “There are boots to be cleaned, and the chandelier in the dining room needs fresh candles. I hope you don’t need telling twice.”

She fixes Thomas with a stern stare. Without another word, he slinks away.

I hear Prudie breathe a sigh of relief, and old George hastily pulls on his boots.

“Shall I go, then?” I ask Mrs MacDonald. She nods. “But be quick about it,” she says. I don’t wait for her to change her mind; I’m already out of the door and making my way across the yard to the stable block where Sam is sweeping straw into an untidy heap.

Although there is still a chill wind blowing in from the east, Sam has stripped off his coat and waistcoat. His strong, muscled arms strain hard at the worn fabric of his shirt, but his eyes are soft upon me. They are as blue as a midsummer sky and as gentle.

“You’ve to get the carriage ready to go out,” I tell him.

“You here to give me a hand, then?” he says and he stops sweeping. “I could help,” I say. A shy smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “You don’t want to get your hands and feet muddied out here, Miss Henrietta.”

“It’s Hetty!” I burst out. “Call me Hetty – everyone else does.”

He looks deep into my eyes and I feel the colour burn in my cheeks, but I don’t turn away. Unlike Miss Matilda, I’m going to choose the man that I marry – and maybe, just maybe, I’ve already found him.

His STRONG, MUSCLED arms strain but his EYES are soft UPON ME