The China Dairymaid

Charlotte’s quiet farm life would unexpectedly be remembered through the ages . . .

him, against the soft flank.

As she began milking she started to sing softly.

“As I was going to Strawberry Fair, singing, singing buttercups and daisies . . .”

Matthew stood entranced. If only he could see her face.

It was a perfect picture, and in that instant the idea sprang to his mind.

These days there were many shepherdesses, but . . . hastily, he took out his sketchbook.

At last the girl patted the cow and stood up, carefully lifting the pail in one hand and the stool in the other, then turned towards him, her face still hidden by the bonnet.

“Good morning, mistress,” Matthew called, raising his hat.

“Oh, sir – you startled me.”

“Allow me to help you.” He vaulted over the stile and took the stool from her.

“Thank you, sir.”

She looked up at him shyly.

A heart-shaped face, a dusting of freckles over the snubby nose and red-gold curls.

She smiled, and two things happened: a dimple popped out – and Matthew fell hopelessly in love.

“I – I wonder . . .” Something seemed to have happened to his voice, and he showed her the rough sketch.

“That is, would you permit me to draw you properly?”

“Oh, sir! I don’t think so. I – I must get back or Cook will be cross with me, and the mistress –”

“Please.” He couldn’t let her go. “I mean you no harm.”

When she still hesitated, he put out his hand.

“Matthew Stone, at your service,” he said formally.

“I am a final year apprentice artist in the porcelain works in town and to qualify I have to produce a new design – my master piece.

“There are many fine figurines from the establishments of Chelsea and Bow, but I think no milkmaids.

“It will only take me a few moments,” he added with a winning smile. “Well, I suppose . . .” “Good. Now, just stand like that, the pail in your hand, your dress tucked up to show the, er, petticoat, and look up at me from under the brim of your bonnet.”

And he feverishly set to work. Those Chelsea figures – the faces were almost an afterthought.

His milkmaid would be a real living girl, a girl with freckles, with glossy curls, with a dimple . . .

He finished and snapped the book shut.

“May I not see it?” “No.” He smiled down at her. “But I promise you will see the finished figurine.”

Across the meadow came the sound of

the church clock.

“Oh, ten o’clock!” She gasped. “I must hurry.” He held the pail while she climbed over the stile. “Thank you, sir. Goodbye.”

“But I don’t know your name, or where you work.”

“Charlotte, sir. Charlotte Dale.” She threw over her shoulder. “I work at the manor down yonder.”

He watched her scurry away, then turned to go himself.

The Jersey cow was watching intently, as if interested in those strange humans, and he blew her a kiss and went on his way.

****

Matthew leaned against the churchyard wall, enjoying the mid-summer warmth on his face.

From the open porch door he heard the notes of the final hymn die away, and moments later voices as the congregation emerged.

Some eyed him curiously, others nodded or smiled, but he barely saw them. Would she ever –?

Ah, yes, here were all the servants from the manor, at Evensong once their Sunday duties were over.

And among them – yes, one slim figure, demurely dressed in navy print, a straw bonnet tied firmly over red-gold curls.

He stepped forward as she came nearer, raising his hat, and she stopped dead, blushing deeply.

“Good evening, Miss Dale. Might I have a word with you?”

“Well, I –”

She looked round at Cook, in the rear, shepherding her flock.

The woman eyed the young man keenly, summed him up as harmless, then smiled.

“Yes, Charlotte, you may stay behind to speak with Mr . . .?”

“Stone, ma’am. Matthew Stone.”

“But mind you’re not late.”

“No, Mrs Curtis.” The girl bobbed a curtsey, and the two of them stood facing one another as the other servants went off chattering.

He smiled at her. “You remember me, Charlotte?”

“Of course, sir.” She was playing with her bonnet ribbons, not looking at him.

“I have brought you something.”

“Oh, no, sir. Please, I couldn’t –”

“Shh.” He opened the box which sat on the wall and took out a china figurine.

Silently, he handed it to her.

“Oh! It’s beautiful, sir.” The young girl’s dress was tucked up to show her petticoat, and she held a pail in one hand. A heartshaped face smiled from under the brim of a bonnet, set atop red-gold curls.

She looked up at him in wonderment.

“It’s me, isn’t it, sir?” “Yes, Charlotte. It’s you.” He took the figure back.

“And look there – it has my initials MS on the base. I’m sorry, but it has a tiny fault in the glazing.” “Oh, no, sir. It is perfect.” He smiled at her.

“If I give it to you, will you give me something in return?”

“But I have nothing, sir. So I cannot take it.” Her face clouded.

“Will you give me your hand in marriage? And if the answer is yes, then it should be Matthew and not sir.”

“Oh, sir – Matthew.” She smiled up at him, her face radiant, and he took her in his arms.

****

Tim was on his way home from work when he saw the sign outside the church hall: Bric-à-brac/ Antiques/ Collectables: Sale today!

Hmm. There just might be something . . . but a cursory scan of the stalls drew a blank.

There were some pretty china trinkets, but he’d given her one of those for Christmas.

He was about to leave when he caught the eye of an elderly stallholder and she smiled at him.

“Looking for something special, dear?”

“Well, yes, for Josie – my wife. She loves old bits and pieces of china.”

“You’ve come to the right place, then. Her birthday?”

“No.” He hesitated. “We’ve just found out that she’s pregnant. We’ve wanted a baby for four years now, so . . .”

“Wonderful, congratulations. Do you know if it’s a boy or girl yet?”

“A girl. She’s going to be Charlotte Emily, because Josie’s mad on the Brontës.”

“How nice. Well, let me see . . . calls for something a bit special.

“Pity – I’ve just sold a pink and gold Spode dish.

“But perhaps I can get another one by the time little Charlotte makes an appearance.

“I’ve got a nice turquoise Aynsley cup and saucer somewhere.”

“What’s that?” He was pointing to the shelf behind her. “That girl.”

“Oh, she’s a milkmaid. From our local china works – gone now, like so many of them, but it flourished for a couple of centuries.”

She reached it down. “Yes, there’s quite a story behind this particular series.

“The artist was a young local man – Matthew Stone.

“He always initialled his creations. See . . .”

She pointed to a tiny MS on the base.

“It’s said that he wanted something different for his master piece, at the end of his apprenticeship, and saw this young woman milking a cow in one of the meadows round here.

“One version says he fell in love on the spot and married her.

“I don’t know how true that is.” She laughed. “But it makes a nice story.” “Can I see it, please?’ He took it and looked intently at it.

“There is a flaw,” the woman warned, “a fault in the firing. And it’s been knocked about a bit. I’ve got some nicer pieces if you –”

“It’s incredible.” He was shaking his head in disbelief. “The face.”

“Yes, that’s one of the things that to my mind makes his work unique.

“Most of the young females in the figurines have stylised faces – just a dab of eyes and mouth.

“But Matthew Stone always took special care with the features.”

“But it’s my wife – it’s Josie!” He looked at her, eyes wide.

“It’s amazing. Red-gold curls, blue eyes, even a dash of freckles on her nose . . . I’ll take it.”

“Well, what a coincidence. I’m so glad you like it, and I’m sure Josie will, too.”

She wrapped the figure in tissue paper, then looked around her and finally picked up a tiny jug covered in pink rosebuds and wrapped that, too.

“An early present, my dear, for you both.” She smiled. “And for Charlotte Emily.” ■