Читать книгу Rags-To-Riches Wife - Catherine Tinley - Страница 12

The day Jane’s life changed began just like any other. It was one of those early February mornings that could not decide whether to wallow in winter or look forward to spring. The pale blue sky teased with the promise of sunshine, but the blustery wind argued in favour of warm shawls and smoking chimneys.

As personal maid to Marianne Ashington, Lady Kingswood, it was Jane’s responsibility to anticipate her mistress’s needs, and weather predicting was part of it. Miss Marianne might wish to walk in the garden today, or visit friends, or she might be content to read or embroider inside the house. Jane, therefore, needed to prepare both a fine silk day dress and a stouter wool walking gown.

Normally the Countess spent much of her time with her young son, John, and Jane’s life was complicated by the impact of grubby hand marks and food spills on her mistress’s fine gowns. Still, one could forgive little John almost anything, she thought, picturing the child’s angelic smile.

‘Good morning, my lady,’ she said cheerfully, entering the Countess’s room a little after nine, as usual.

She pulled back the heavy curtains, allowing the pale winter sunshine to spill into the chamber. One of the scullery maids came behind her, immediately beginning to clean out the fireplace. Jane eyed her mistress closely. The Countess yawned and stretched, mumbling a sleepy greeting.

‘I hope you have slept well, my lady.’ Jane picked up the chamber pot and passed it to Aggie, the scullery maid, who disappeared with it. Everyone in the household knew their place and their tasks.

‘I slept very well, thank you.’ The Countess eased herself into a sitting position. ‘Even though I had company.’ She indicated the small tousled head beside her.

The Earl was in London, dealing with matters of business, so Master John had, it seemed, undertaken to keep his mama company in his papa’s absence.

Jane smiled. ‘Good morning, Master John.’

The child was awake, eyeing her with solemnity. Within minutes, Jane knew, he would be up and running around like a spinning top. At nearly two years of age he was the undoubted darling of Ledbury House. His parents adored him, as did all the servants, yet he was in no danger of being spoiled. His mama was not over-indulgent, and neither was—

‘There you are, my lambkin!’ Nurse bustled into the room, all starched white cotton and kind efficiency. She scooped little John up into her arms and he nestled into her ample bosom. ‘I shall change those damp linens immediately, my lamb!’

The Countess, smiling indulgently at her offspring as he disappeared, accepted a cup of tea from Jane with a murmur of thanks.

‘Would you like a bath today?’ asked Jane. Miss Marianne had talked of it yesterday.

The Countess shivered. ‘Perhaps later, when the chamber is warm. For now—’ she threw back the covers ‘—I shall get up.’

After her mistress had washed, Jane helped her dress in a clean shift and, following some debate, a stout walking dress of fine russet merino. Lady Kingswood’s favourite nightgown was in need of a wash, so she folded it to take downstairs.

Aggie had returned, and lit a fire in the Countess’s fireplace. As the morning chill began slowly to ease a little the Countess took her seat before the mirror, sipping a dish of tea and allowing Jane to dress her hair.

Jane smiled inwardly. She loved this part of the day. The Countess’s hair was long, dark and lustrous, and Jane adored brushing and styling it. She had cared for Lady Kingswood for almost ten years—since she was plain Miss Marianne Grant and Jane, then thirteen, had been assigned to serve her. Inwardly, and sometimes aloud, she still called her Miss Marianne.

After Papa had died, Jane had had to adapt quickly from the carefree life she had lived while he was alive to one where she earned her keep. The first year after Papa’s death had been particularly harrowing. Once their meagre savings had run out, Mama and Jane had left their little cottage and sought temporary work in a series of taverns. They had frequently gone hungry that winter, and their clothes had become decidedly ragged. Thankfully Mama had secured a position in Miss Marianne’s home the following summer, and had risen eventually to the exalted position of housekeeper.

Jane, too, had done well for herself. After starting as a scullery maid in the same household she had, given her gentle manners, been promoted to the role of upstairs housemaid. At thirteen she had been offered the opportunity to train as Miss Marianne’s personal servant, and had been devoted to her mistress ever since.

More recently, in the year Miss Marianne had married, Jane and her mama had followed their mistress to Ledbury House, where Jane’s mother was now housekeeper. Apart from a dark few months spent apart, Miss Marianne had been the centre of Jane’s life since she was thirteen.

‘Now, Jane. Some French today, I think.’

‘Yes, Miss M—I mean, my lady.’

Miss Marianne, discovering that Jane had, until the age of eight, been raised as a gentleman’s daughter, had decided to continue her education. Over the years Jane had developed a creditable knowledge of French, German and Italian, along with an appreciation of history and philosophy. The Countess was a born tutor, and had used her skills as a governess when she had had to leave her home following the deaths of her parents.

Jane frowned, remembering that dark time. Miss Marianne’s stepbrother, Henry Grant, had importuned her, causing Miss Marianne to leave her home in the dead of night. Two months later Jane and her mother had been forced to follow, after Master Henry had attempted to violate Jane herself.

She shuddered. Do not think of it!

Thankfully Henry had died four years ago, leaving Miss Marianne free to marry the man she loved, and Jane and her mother safe in her employ.

He no longer has the power to hurt us, she reminded herself as she responded to Miss Marianne’s French conversation.

And yet Henry was always with her, lurking in the shadows of her heart. Laughing at her.

We are safe here in Ledbury House.

But for how long? Ever since that day when the fever had taken Papa, Jane had felt as though the ground beneath her was soft, uncertain. Hunger and insecurity had worked its way into her bones during that year of mourning, of scarcity, of homelessness. Much more had vanished along with her papa—Rose Cottage, a regular income, food, warm clothes...

But Mama and Jane had worked hard—harder than most of their colleagues—and their industry had been rewarded with long-term positions. Jane had just begun to settle after a few years, begun to believe they had found a new home, when all had shifted again. The master and mistress they had been serving had died in a terrible carriage accident, leaving Miss Marianne orphaned and under the care of her stepbrother.

Once again the home Jane had come to love had been taken from her, when Master Henry’s evil intent had meant it was not a safe place to live. Once again she and Mama had found themselves homeless and needing to start again.

But then they had followed Miss Marianne here, to Ledbury House, where they had now been living for almost five years.

In her heart, though, Jane could not feel fully at ease. Always it seemed to her that some disaster would surely occur, causing her once again to lose her home. She felt as though her life would be ever thus—that she would always be at the whim of others, never the mistress of her own fate. Memories of hunger, of poverty, of homelessness lay buried within her, rising at times to flood her with anxiety.

When she had voiced her worries to Mama, her mother had not understood. ‘But we are secure here with Lady Kingswood! So long as she remains pleased with us we need not worry.’

‘But what if she becomes ill, or—or dies? What if some disaster occurs and Lord Kingswood loses his riches? What if—?’

‘Oh, Jane! Do not allow your mind to run away with you. Why, you are lost to all common sense! Why should such things occur? Now, stop thinking of things that are not real and focus on what you can do to keep in favour with Miss Marianne!’

Mama’s words made sense. Jane knew how close she was to her mistress, and she could not in truth imagine displeasing the Countess so much that she would be let go, but there were so many other possibilities that might lead to them once again being homeless. That fear had never left her.

For now, though, she would do as she always did: she would work hard and hope to stay as long as possible.

Having directed the housemaids to make up Miss Marianne’s bed, Jane picked up the Countess’s nightgown and tripped lightly downstairs. No one but her, she had decreed, must deal with milady’s clothing. She washed, ironed and mended everything herself, ensuring Miss Marianne’s personal needs were met.

She also advised the Countess on fashion—poring over the fashion plates in Miss Marianne’s magazines and periodicals and never once wishing for such finery for herself. She and Miss Marianne had an unusual relationship—if it had not been for the differences in their station Jane might even have called her a friend. Miss Marianne was all kindness, and treated Jane with much more warmth and flexibility than she ought.

Sometimes the Countess gave her an old dress she no longer wanted—but, despite her mistress’s protests, Jane would remove the lace and flounces before wearing it. Jane suspected that Miss Marianne looked for ways to be kind, but she herself still heeded Mama’s warnings.

‘You are a servant now, Jane. Never forget it.’

And, as a maid, she should always wear plain, simple clothing and dress her hair neatly.

But she had the pleasure of seeing Lady Kingswood well turned out, and the joy of caring for embroidered silks, delicate lace-trimmed gowns and delightful bonnets.

In those early years in the servants’ quarters of Miss Marianne’s childhood home she would never have dreamed of reaching the great heights of becoming a lady’s maid. And yet here she was. The other servants treated her with respect, she shared a comfortable chamber and private sitting room with her own mama, she had a secure wage and her very own tea allowance, and she had the sweetest, kindest mistress any servant could wish for. It made her secret fears seem even more preposterous.

My situation is a good one, she reminded herself for the hundredth time. How many servants have the opportunities Miss Marianne has given me?

Miss Marianne’s parents, like Jane’s own papa, had not subscribed to the popular view that a lady’s brain was not strong enough for book learning, and Miss Marianne had had an excellent education—much of which she had passed to her maid.

Jane made her way to the scullery with Miss Marianne’s nightgown and spent the next half-hour washing and scrubbing it, along with two shifts and some stockings. The lye was sharp on her hands, which were perpetually red and chapped from her work. Oh, she knew the laundry maid would happily do this task, if asked, but Jane had no notion of surrendering Miss Marianne’s nightgown to anyone else.

She sang softly as she worked, conscious of a strong sense of purpose in her life. Today her deepest fears seemed far away, and the anxious voice inside her quiet. For now.

‘I declare, Jane, you have the sweetest singing voice I ever heard.’ Jane’s mama bent to kiss her on the cheek.

Jane laughed. ‘You always say so, Mama, and I always repeat that your ear is attuned to my voice simply because I am your daughter. Now, I see you are dressed to go out. Do you need me to do anything while you are gone?’

‘Nothing in particular,’ Mrs Bailey replied, tying her plain bonnet under her chin. ‘Thomas will take me to the village, where I must speak with the butcher. All is quiet upstairs, and Mrs Cullen is content, so now is my chance to slip out for an hour. I have told them all that you speak for me in my absence.’

‘Yes, Mama.’ As housekeeper, Mrs Bailey rarely left Ledbury House, but when she did Jane was an able deputy. ‘Though I am sure nothing untoward will happen.’

Jane returned to her laundry work and Mr Handel’s aria.

Once satisfied, she stepped outside with the wet nightgown and spread it on a bush near the kitchen door. There it would remain for a couple of hours, until it was nearly dry, at which point Jane would bring it indoors to air in front of the kitchen fire. If it did not rain the nightgown would be dry and pressed long before Miss Marianne’s bedtime.

She paused for a moment, enjoying the sensation of the pale winter sunshine on her face.

I am content here, at Ledbury House, she realised.

Then the wind whipped up again and sent her scurrying inside to her mending.